


Clickbait

by agirlcalledbob



Series: Instant Destiny [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Daddy Kink, Double Penetration, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Movie AU, Multi, Spanking, TV star Stiles, That would give the game away, Threesome - M/M/M, Thriller, Tv star Derek, Violence, not all characters tagged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:01:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 48,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23279014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlcalledbob/pseuds/agirlcalledbob
Summary: Stiles has a mind that never stops working. So, when he finds a mystery that he thinks he can investigate, nothing is going to stop him from getting to the bottom of it, no matter what Derek thinks.
Relationships: Chris Argent/Peter Hale/Jackson Whittemore, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Instant Destiny [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1634938
Comments: 18
Kudos: 55





	1. Prologue: Wish I Were With You, But I Couldn’t Stay

**Author's Note:**

> Oooh, it's so short. But it's only the prologue. I said earlier I was going to enjoy this story, and, so far, I was right.

Consciousness dawns on him slowly; even behind tightly shut eyes, he can see the red glare of light. The usual process: check all limbs – they’re in place but the sheets surrounding him, pressed against his soft skin, feel shiny-cheap, not the luxurious pure cotton he’s used to, as he stretches, feeling joints pop pleasantly. Head? Not aching. The nightmares can’t have been too bad, then, although he has little doubt they were present, even as he refuses to remember them. He always has nightmares when he’s on his own at night. 

He twists his shoulders, eyes still firmly closed, as the brightness seems to get worse instead of better; and now there is a headache, sneaking up, accompanying the uncomfortably brilliant heat. There’s a twinge in his shoulder, which, now activated, is not helping the building thud of his brain. 

He allows a slit of light between his lids and hisses. Was he drinking? He can’t remember, which is unusual. It’s not like he drinks so much the occasions blur into one; but the night before is a mystery and wracking his brain is doing nothing more than exacerbating his pounding head. There was that famous actor or writer – another thing he can’t remember right now – who said he pitied non-drinkers, because the best they would feel all day was on waking. He might have had a point, whoever that guy was, as if this is the best he feels all day he might just shoot himself. 

Finally, his pupils seem to have forgiven him for letting light in, and he finds it in himself to widen the gaps. He’s staring at a ceiling. Nothing special, which is unusual enough to make him tense. If he was at home, even though he’d already known he wasn’t, there’d be height, and fresh white, and a pseudo-industrial triple of light fittings. This is off-white, but not some stylish new paint choice: the off-white of age, and lack of cleaning. So he knows he isn’t in some friend’s guest bedroom either. He doesn’t know a person who lives that way, not anymore. 

He’s never been the most together person, well, ever, but particularly first thing in the morning. That’s his only excuse for why it’s only now that he feels a sense of real discomfort run through him, and he tries to think harder whether he went out; clenches his ass to see if there’s any pain. There isn’t, thank God, but it’s a small mercy, especially as something new comes to his ears. Something raspy, that sounds almost, but not quite, like an old dog breathing. At last: real fear, and he finds himself unable to turn toward the source of the noise, unwilling to confirm or deny a thing.

Instead, he roams his eyes over the badly-painted ceiling, can just see the edge of a window and the clear light of day (well, that explains the excessive brightness – no curtains), though there’s nothing else unless he plans to be brave enough to move his head. And he’s going to have to do it. The snuffling has gotten louder, more unnerving, and he’s wondering if he’s about to get pounced by some ancient hound.

He slowly moves his neck, away from the noise (okay, he isn’t feeling particularly brave), sees a wooden door set into the bare wall, the same yellowing paint as the ceiling, no decoration. He can only stare at that heavy door, the epitome of foreboding, with a very obvious huge lock, the type that needs one of those enormous skeleton keys, a sense of dread crawling heavily up his spine.

There’s nothing for it. He’s going to have to turn toward the noise now. He does it, almost impossibly slowly, thankful that the moist noises have steadied out, and, maybe, he isn’t about to get his throat torn out. 

“Oh my God,” his voice is raspy, and he realises his throat is scratched raw. He can’t believe it, though he doesn’t know why. He should have known this was linked – blame his lack of cognitive connection on the disorientation he’d been feeling up until now. The distraction from the frankly burning sensation in his throat means he can process the panicked flapping from the other bed and realises that he needs to be quiet, to not reveal anything more. 

He’s thankful his mind seems to be clearing, though he’s still no closer to _really_ knowing what’s going on, but it isn’t a nice feeling, to not be able to trust his own brain. He isn’t sure whether whispering might be okay, but the wide, terrified eyes gazing back at him suggest that maybe, for once, he should keep his mouth shut.

The self-instruction comes just in time, as he hears heavy footsteps on a staircase, followed by the unmistakable clunk of a chunky key entering the lock, forcefully clicking the barrel over, and he reverts his eyes back to that unprepossessing ceiling.

“Well, hello son. I’m glad to see you’re finally awake. You had me worried there for a while.” The voice is unknown, but still manages to send a shudder of disgust through him, chased by trepidation.


	2. Where Are They Now? – You’ll Be Shocked At Number 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles starts to think - too much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note on Stiles' use of 'sourwolf' - no, Derek is not a werewolf in this. But Stiles likes nicknames for him, and that's one of my favorite ones - and it fits so well, because of Derek's demeanor (and eyebrows) that I'm running with it anyway.
> 
> Also, fair warning - I like writing smut, and this fic is going to have quite a lot, that in no way develops the plot - it is in there entirely gratuitously, just because. So if you disapprove, this won't be for you.

“Stiles, you need to look excited; there’s too much worry in your eyes. Remember, you don’t know it’s bad in this scene,” Chris doesn’t sound exasperated, yet, so Stiles knows he isn’t quite messing the whole thing up, but he doesn’t seem to be able to get the last set-up they filmed out of his head. That’s the thing about filming a movie – with the TV show they record mainly in order, but the movie is all over the place, and the last scene was them finding a corpse, so he’s finding it hard to act enthusiastic now. It isn’t like he hasn’t done it before, for the first movie, but that was a long time ago, when he was still very wet behind the ears and could just fall into what was needed without thinking too much. These days, he relies on his own skills, and it’s at times like this he’s reminded that they’re pretty limited.

“Sorry, Chris, I’ll get it.” Chris marks them back to their positions for the fourth time and Derek shoots Stiles an encouraging look.

_“C’mon, big man, we have to see if we can catch up with the witness before they’re in the wind.”_ Stiles can tell his brow is furrowing again, so he looks into Derek’s eyes, sparkling with excitement, which is so out of character Stiles is just reminded, yet again, of how damn _good_ Der is at this. It could knock him down, but his man is relying on him to get this right so they can go home, so he widens his eyes and lets them flash in response, reaching to take Derek’s hand. It isn’t in the script, but their characters touch often enough that they just go with it, and he drags Derek to the car as Chris shouts ‘cut’.

“We got it boys; that last one was perfect,” Chris approaches them, looking just as happy, and Stiles realizes he’s probably itching to get home himself.  
“Come on, you,” Derek wraps an arm over Stiles’ shoulder. “Food?”  
“God, yes, I’m starving.”  
“You’re always starving, Baby.” He chucks Stiles under the chin and pulls him in tighter. Even though they’ve been filming in the street and there are a few interested bystanders watching from behind the barriers, he loves how Derek doesn’t care. 

They’d decided early on in their relationship they weren’t going to do a big announcement to either come out or reveal their relationship. To be honest, they’d assumed the media would get wind of it pretty fast and it would be out of their hands, but, despite the continued popularity and success of the show, there hadn’t been any dramatic exclusives. Derek puts it down to the media being too used to how close they are, and the fact that, provided they don’t suddenly start making out in the streets, they don’t do anything different than before they were together. So Stiles happily leans into Derek’s strong body now as they make their way to where his Camaro is parked.

Stiles isn’t paying attention, so it takes Derek nudging his side to realize someone is trying to get his attention.  
“Hey, Mischief!” To Stiles’ surprise the speaker is a white-haired older man – definitely not his usual fan base – who looks nervous but determined as he waves his phone at them. “May I have a picture?” Stiles makes it a rule to always be nice to his fans; he knows full well they’d never have made it this far without a large and enthusiastic core of them; so he leaves Derek’s side to stand by the man with a smile, leaning in but not touching. He sees Derek tense when the man puts his arm around Stiles, but he sends a reassuring smile. He comes across as quite a touchy-feely person (mainly down to being seen around Derek a lot, of course), so his fans often see him as free real estate. He can live with it though, and deftly wriggles away after the obligatory two shots.  
“Nice to meet you, Sir.” He wouldn’t normally, but figures the old gent would like it, and the beam says he does. Plus, Derek gets a hilarious scowl on when he hears it, which makes Stiles giggle.  
“Thank you, Mischief. I always knew you were as good a young man as you seemed.” Weird compliment, but Stiles just smiles politely as he heads over to Derek’s car.

Derek is still sulking when they get to the diner, and Stiles presses against him while they wait for their meals.  
“Hey sourwolf, you jealous of an old guy? I’m not hot for him, I promise.” That finally gets a grin from Derek, and Stiles’ heart sings.  
‘Guess I’m just possessive. I hate watching other people grabbing at you, and so many people think it’s fine to do.”  
“I know, but it goes with the territory. You’re the only one I want it from, promise. They’d do it with you if you didn’t look like you’d rip their heads off.”  
“Wish you’d get that look. You’re too nice.”  
“No such thing, my sweet,” Stiles jokingly flutters his eyelashes and makes Derek laugh. Best sound ever (well, there might be just a couple noises he’s capable of making Derek make that surpass it).

* * * * * 

The television is on in the background while Stiles and Derek are both poring over copies of the script, leaning back against the grey tweed headboard, which is comfortably padded for just this purpose. 

Stiles is mumbling his lines under his breath, his face contorting to over-exaggerated permutations of the required emotions, which Derek watches with a small smile, clearly finding it cute. He opens his mouth as if to make a comment, when Stiles suddenly increases the volume on the television, a news anchor being appropriately somber, announcing the body of a man being found in the Santa Monica Mountains.  
_“Sebastien Valet was known for roles in the 2012 movie ‘Thunder Valley’ and popular television drama ‘Malibu Murder’, but has been missing for eighteen months. The mystery of his disappearance is partially solved with the discovery of his body at the base of the Santa Monica Mountains National Park. Local law enforcement say it has lain undiscovered for several months, and there are currently no leads.”_

“You knew him.”  
Derek turns, his head cocked. “I suppose. I met him once, anyway, when I had a guest role in Malibu Murder. His character was a total idiot, and he wasn’t much better.”  
“Derek! You can’t say that. The man’s dead.”  
“Well, that’s not great. But doesn’t change him being an idiot. He made the set an awful place. All the regulars spent the whole day I was there complaining about him.”  
“That’s creepy though, right? Knowing someone who’s been murdered.”  
“What? They didn’t say he’d been murdered. He probably went hiking alone and fell off a cliff. It seems the kind of thing he would have done.”  
“You’re cold.”  
“And you’re overthinking. Put that script down and come to bed.”

“No. I messed up eight times today. I’ve gotta get the scenes right tomorrow. Anyway, you put yours down.”  
“You’re spending too long thinking about disappearing people and murder. I’m rewriting scenes. Danny and I had a meeting this morning and we want to change some parts.”  
“My parts?”  
“You’re so sensitive, Baby,” but he looks contrite when Stiles’ face falls. “No, not your parts. It’s not about the characters anyway, just making the story more of a thriller. It might be a little darker.”  
“And you two decided that would be the right way?” Stiles isn’t sure. “The fans love the humor.”  
“It lets us explore more interesting themes,” but Derek looks uncertain and uncurls his legs before grabbing his cell and heading out of the room.

Stiles is sleepy, but he isn’t going to sleep without Derek so he turns the TV off and gets his phone out, flicking through Insta and liking a few pics his friends have posted, dropping a comment on one Jackson took on set today, joking about him taking pictures instead of working. Derek still isn’t back when he’s done, and he finds himself falling in a listicle hole, until he’s firmly in the realm of finding out why people can’t get enough of this new superfood and top five organization hacks, most of which seem to revolve around paperclips. 

He decides to give himself a laugh at how ridiculous clickbait is when he flicks onto a story titled ‘Where Are They Now? – You’ll Be Shocked At Number 5’, to find a list of one-time actors who are now alpaca farmers and elementary school teachers. Number eight gives him pause, though, because he recognizes the name. Brett Talbot. He’d had a recurring role in season two, playing a perky little pain in the ass who started as a client and wanted to become a private investigator like Scott. The article says he’d been a child star but had retired from acting and is thought to have gone to college, but left all social media. That’s weird. Stiles never exactly became friends with him, but he’s pretty sure the guy lived and breathed acting; was just pushing everything for his big comeback as an adult. 

He finds his account on Insta. Like he thought, he does follow it, but then he follows several hundred by now, so a change in posting frequency, or even an announcement, could easily slip by unseen. The last thing posted makes a weird pit of nerves bubble in his stomach. Because it’s nothing. And it’s six months old. A picture of Brett in a park, his arm around a pretty girl, both of them smiling into the selfie, glazed with sweat and wearing running gear, the comment ‘@lorileethestar feeling good, feeling free, things are looking up’. He vaguely thinks he might have dropped a heart at the time, but he must do it dozens of times every day, so this doesn’t stand out.

He clicks on the girl’s name and follows it to her account. There isn’t much, specially lately, but he follows the trail back to about when Brett posted his picture, and gasps. There’s a picture of Brett from about two weeks after his post – it looks like a professional headshot. Except it isn’t. Well, not anymore, anyway. It’s a missing person poster; red writing giving it a sense of urgency: ‘Missing: Can You Help? Last seen in Echo Park’. It lists height and build, all the usual stuff.

Stiles feels a little sick. No surprise the article doesn’t have its facts rights, but he hadn’t expected that. 

Derek pads back into the bedroom then, typing rapidly on his phone, his handsome face lit by the screen.  
“Read this.” Stiles thrusts his phone at Derek who takes it without even commenting on Stiles’ rudeness. He reads the poster and hands the phone back with a raised eyebrow. “You remember him? He was on the show. Like, four episodes, though mainly with Scott and Jacks.”  
“Oh, yeah, I think so. Robert, right?”  
“Robbie. And his name’s Brett in real life.”  
“And he’s gone missing. I get it, Stiles, it sucks. But it happens. Maybe he wanted out of the lifestyle. Went to the country.” Stiles rolls his eyes. Derek can be dense sometimes. But he finally remembers Derek isn’t inside his head.

“First Sebastien Valet and now Brett Talbot. You’re not telling me that’s a coincidence.”  
“Uh, yeah, I am. There’s, what, a year between them vanishing? And there’s no suggestion Valet was anything other than an accident.” Stiles sulks, crossing his arms.

“I told you you needed to stop reading that script. All the murders are getting to you. And you’ve just reminded me. It’s been a while since you had a release. Looks to me like you’re getting caught up in your own head.” Stiles looks up sharply, a gleam of interest in his eyes. He won’t deny he could use a distraction. And it _has_ been a while.  
“You gonna make the bad thoughts go away…Sir?” Stiles watches Derek’s reaction through his lashes, nibbling his lower lip as Derek’s eyes darken.  
“Strip.”

Never let it be said Stiles can’t follow direction (when it suits him), and it isn’t thirty seconds later when he’s naked and laid across Derek’s pajama-clad thighs, his pale skin flushed with the promise of what’s to come. Derek wraps his hand around the back of Stiles’ neck, pressing with a gentleness that doesn’t deceive. The hypothetical threat makes Stiles shiver and he loves that feeling of dangerous safety that Derek always brings when they play this way. Stiles just wants – no, needs – to be reminded that Derek controls his power because he wants to, and that Stiles expressing the desire he has in this direction _makes_ Derek let go of that control, just the smallest, necessary amount.

Just like every other time, the first strike makes him jump, a passioned whimper escaping. As they’ve experimented this way; finding a lot of things that don’t work, allowing them to hone in on what does; they know that Stiles likes it hard – the first hit has to be enough to make a burning bloom flash across his skin. It hurts, sure, but it’s what he needs to let go of his overactive mind, and the next few follow the same path, until he can feel the heat and his skin is almost itchy with the tingle of appropriation, of Derek owning his flesh, and of Stiles giving it up – because he wants to. 

Stiles doesn’t even know how many he takes – he trusts Derek to monitor his reactions and to slow it down when it’s getting to be the far side of pain; turning into discomfort instead of sharpness – when Derek begins to soften each attack, rubbing the itch away now, after each one, his large hand smooth, except for a few callouses he’s developed over the years from playing guitar: callouses that help, and make Stiles’ skin even more sensitive.

Stiles knows he’s leaking a wet patch onto Derek’s pants – knows equally well that Derek doesn’t care one bit (though there was that one time the pressure of the spanking, and the rub of Derek’s thigh – bare that time – against Stiles’ cock, had dragged a surprising orgasm out of him, and Derek had made him lick his skin clean: and Stiles had discovered a new kink he never knew he had). 

“So good for me, Baby. Just taking it, and so well. This smooth skin all pink and warm. I love that I can do this to you. You made me so hard, Baby.”  
Stiles mumbles – his mind is offering to take care of that for Derek, but his vocal cords can’t quite seem to get on board. It doesn’t matter anyway. Stiles knows what Derek will do – because his favorite thing, when Stiles is all blissed out and brainless, is to lay him carefully on the bed, face down, and to cover his lean body – forearms pinning Stiles at the shoulder, knees holding Stiles’ thighs close together – and slide slowly inside him with only a slick of lube, so he can use the hole that’s perfectly curated to his length, the only conscious movement the rise and fall of Derek’s hips as his head rests at the back of Stiles’ shoulder and his mouth mutters words of approval and praise close to his ear.

It’s not quite out-of-body, but Stiles adores how Derek just lets him feel when they do this – he doesn’t put any expectations out; there are no new positions, or requests. So Stiles doesn’t overthink: in fact, there’s very little thinking at all, just feeling, until he can sense Derek swelling inside him with a desperate little groan as his fingertips dig into Stiles’ shoulders. That’s when the movement happens, and he flips Stiles’ unprotesting body and dives onto his cock, which is glistening and red with need by now, and which gives up it’s prize with an ease that takes almost no effort from either of them. 

And, also as usual, Derek gets a warm, wet cloth from the bathroom to clean them both up, and he tucks Stiles in, finally sliding in behind him and pulling his dazy form close so they can both drop into clear, unbothered sleep and, Stiles can drop away without having to worry about whatever subject led to the whole event.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would love to know what you think.


	3. You’re Dirty Sweet and You’re My Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jackson has to accept feelings. Urgh, feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay.   
> Work, so much work, plus got distracted by my BDSM story on Wattpad (check it out if you like that kind of thing).   
> Really enjoyed writing this, so exciting having the threads build, though hope it's not to jarring switching to Jackson's pov (as switching pov will be a continuing theme)

Jackson can see Chris watching him, a knowing look in his eyes. It’s not as though he doesn’t always have a knowing look, but this one has an edge to it that’s making Jackson wriggle, which in turn earns him a swat on the arm with a make-up brush.  
“Stop it, Jacks, unless you want your ‘run in with the bad guy’ bruises to look more like something a toddler produced.”  
“Sorry, Isaac, it’s just-,” Aw, hell, he has nothing to justify why he’s so antsy. At least Isaac has to be getting used to it, because he doesn’t comment again. 

Jackson knows he’s been getting weird around Isaac. He never used to be that way; before Chris and Peter. Sometimes he hates them a little for that; when he’s in a bad mood it’s like they took away his confidence around other guys. But then, when he’s in a good mood he knows that the only thing they took was his desperate, tragic need for approval.

“Boss, don’t you have somewhere to be?” Stiles says from the other makeup chair.  
“Nope.” The smugness is more apparent and Jackson closes his eyes. He’ll probably get into trouble for this, not that the pair of them don’t encourage him. It certainly gets Peter off, talking about the things he’d like Jackson to do with other people while he watches, the big perv. But that’s all it’s ever been, because Chris and Jackson aren’t exhibitionists like Peter is (and Jackson is aware of the irony of that, considering he’s in an established triad and there is, by necessity, a lot of group stuff – but only between the three of them). 

Luckily, Derek comes in then, needing to ask Chris something about today’s direction, and they leave together, and he can take a sigh in relief, until he looks up to meet Stiles’ concerned gaze.  
“You okay, Jacks?”  
“Totally.” He tries to make it clear that everything is all good here, no problems, no awkward posturing with a boy he’s becoming increasingly enamored by, no need to discuss it further, particularly in front of said boy.

He should have known he wouldn’t get away with it, as Stiles grabs his arm the minute filming wraps and all but forces him into the crappy old Jeep he insists on driving. After a sharp ‘message Chris’, Stiles says nothing until he’s pulling up in front of an unprepossessing strip mall. Jackson reluctantly steps out of the car, almost getting taken out by a gleaming black sedan that pulls in as he hops down, but he leaps to the curb just in time, shooting a glare at the old guy driving it – getting an equally vicious stare back.

The near-death experience is forgotten as he looks to Stiles, who is waiting impatiently; arms crossed and foot tapping; at the door to a diner. Jackson scurries to catch up. What is it with everyone getting pissed at him today? Even Peter was grumpy this afternoon, and Jackson’s worried that Chris might have said something to him about Isaac. 

Jackson’s pushed into a booth, surprised when Stiles slides in next to him instead of opposite.   
“What’s going on? You touch starved?” Jackson looks down to where their shoulders are touching.  
“Shut up with your sarcasm, Whittemore.” Shit, he must be in real trouble here. 

Stiles is distracted enough by the waitress to order them both waffles and coffee, even though Jackson is definitely not feeling hungry right now, and it isn’t until she’s been with the steaming mugs that he turns to Jackson with a severe look.  
“Tell me what’s going on.”  
“Nothing.”  
“Bullshit. Is it about Brett Talbot?”

Huh? Now Jackson is _seriously_ thrown.  
“That kid that did some bit part stuff a couple of years ago?”  
“You know him don’t you? You both worked on that Nick show when you were kids.”  
“Well, yeah. For a while. We weren’t friends though. Not at all. It was cutthroat when we were kids, and I barely said more than ‘Hi’ to him when he came to work on the show. Why do you think I’m into _him_?”  
“What? Why would I think you were into him?”

Okay, they’re clearly at entirely cross-purposes, but maybe Jackson can salvage this-  
“Wait, so you’re into someone? Someone other than Peter or Chris?” Or not.

“I thought you were in love?”  
“I am. It isn’t that simple.”  
“I guess not. You’ve already opened your heart to accept two people and love them, it makes sense that it would be easier for you to accept someone else.” Oh. Why is it that Stiles can apparently nail the difficulty Jackson has been having with this whole idea in one comment?  
“Uh…yeah?”  
“So who is it then?” 

Jackson can’t help the major flush. Stiles is too good – there’s no way he won’t guess, even if that means him listing through every person they know until Jackson’s reaction gives it away. So Jackson is thinking this out-  
“It’s Isaac, isn’t it?”  
“What? How the hell can you-,”  
“You’re not the most subtle, dude. You’ve always had heart eyes for him. I can’t blame you; he’s cute as fuck. But take care of him, yeah? He’s kinda fragile in a lot of ways.”  
“What ways?” Jackson considers Isaac a friend, but he isn’t Stiles. He isn’t good at opening up to people, which means they don’t open up to him either. Other than Peter and Chris, Stiles is the only one who’s ever kept going long enough to break down his walls.  
“Not for me to talk about. But, in all honesty, I don’t know that he’d be strong enough for what you guys have. Then, at the same time, I’m pretty certain he’s got hidden depths, and maybe it would be just what he needs. All I’m saying; be careful with his heart.”

“I hear you. I’ll be careful. It’s not something I’m gonna push right now anyway. I just need to get over the fucking cotton mouth I get around him.”  
“Ha! Yes, that’s it! I knew there was a change in how you were acting. It’s like your tongue is too big for your mouth and you just flop around.”  
“Okay, Stiles, thanks for all your help.”  
“Snark,” Stiles snorts.

Their food arrives and Jackson finds himself actually hungry. Maybe talking to Stiles about it has lifted some of the cloud. He’s halfway through his waffles before he remembers their cross-purposes.  
“So what’s the deal with Brett Talbot then?”  
“Gross, dude, keep your food in your mouth. He’s gone missing. And I thought you were worried because you know him, and that’s why you were being weird. Thought I could get some more information. But that’s a wash.”  
“Nah, sorry, man. He’s gone missing though?”

Jackson listens as Stiles goes through the minimal detective work he’s done so far, but he bites his lip when Stiles gets to the end.  
“Listen, I don’t want to send you on a goose chase, but from what I do know of him, it is weird. Lorilee is his sister, and they were super close when they were kids, so I don’t think Derek is right that he’s just gone off to find himself or something. But what do I know? It’s been years.”  
“I trawled through all his posts, though, going right back to when he was on the show, and before. He didn’t seem depressed, though I know you can’t really tell from social media, but all his posts were upbeat and he seems to have a decent core group of people who come across as real friends in his comments. The biggest things though; just before he went missing, he was posting about a really important audition – important enough that he couldn’t say what it was for – and then a call back. And then his last post-,”  
“Yeah, it sounded positive. Not something you’d run away from.”  
“Especially when it looked like he was searching for a comeback.”  
“Like I did.”  
“Like you did. And would you have turned your back on that?”  
“No way. You need to speak to his sister. Find out if he did get a role.”  
“And you need to talk to Peter and Chris.”  
“Shit. Yeah.”

That shiny car is still there when they get back to the Jeep, and the old guy glares at Jackson when he has to shimmy past in the tight space remaining.  
“Dick,” Jackson mutters as he slips into the passenger seat.  
“What’s up?”  
“Nothing, some people are just weird. What do I say to Chris and Peter?”  
“Do you think they know?” Stiles backs out carefully, determined not to do any damage to his shitty rust-bucket.  
“Chris does, I’m pretty sure. But he hasn’t said anything. I don’t know about Peter, though he’s more observant than you’d think.”  
“You gonna get into trouble? Get spanked?” Stiles giggles and Jackson rolls his eyes.  
“There’s a decent chance. Less worried about trouble than about them being hurt.”  
“Of course, sorry,” Stiles looks contrite as he signals for the left turn. “That was insensitive. I suppose I shouldn’t assume they’d be up for it just because of the way you guys do things.”  
“For all I know, they aren’t even attracted to Isaac.”  
“Doesn’t seem likely.”  
“Yeah,” Jackson sighs, not looking forward to the conversation.

* * * * * 

“You’re late, baby boy.”  
“Sorry, Daddy,” Jackson puts his wallet and keys on the console before quickly stripping to his underwear and approaching Peter.  
“Come sit with me, I missed you.”  
“I told Chris I was going out with Stiles.” Jackson curls up next to Peter on the couch, letting the older man rub his side reassuringly.  
“He did say, but he had no idea when you’d be back or where you’d gone.”  
“Am I in trouble?” Jackson rests his head against the crook of Peter’s neck, breathing in his warming scent.  
“He was a little worried.”  
“Stiles kidnapped me. I didn’t even know where I was going. He wanted to talk to me about some actor who’s gone missing.” Jackson re-tells Stiles’ story, expecting Peter to say Stiles is building something out of nothing.  
“That is strange. Though I don’t know the Talbot boy. Chris knows him better.”  
“He does?”

“He does, what?” Chris comes in, looking stern and tired.  
“I’m sorry I worried you, Sir.” Jackson tells the story of his kidnapping again.  
“I know.”  
“You know what, sweetheart?” Peter asks.  
“About Brett being missing. His sister hired a private detective and she came to see me.”  
“So Stiles is right?”  
“He’s right that there’s something off about it, but who knows where that boy’s mind is going at a rate of knots.”

“Do you have anything else you want to talk about, Jackson?” Chris turns with a severe expression.  
“Sir?”  
“You know how I feel about you answering a question with a question.”  
“Sorry, Sir.” Damn. Jackson takes a deep breath. “Actually, yes.”  
“What is it, baby?”  
Deep breath, rip the bandaid. “I like someone. I like Isaac.”  
“We know, pup.”  
“You do?”  
“Darling boy, we’ve probably known of the candle you hold for that boy for longer than you have.”  
“Oh. Okay.”  
“We can’t blame you. He’s sweetness personified.”

Chris is looking speculatively at Jackson, who shivers in anticipation.  
“You haven’t said anything to him, pup.” Jackson doesn’t answer, because it wasn’t a question. “I suspect you are well on the way to building this up to a huge minefield that you won’t be able to get through on your own. Perhaps we can help you clear your mind. Would you like that?”  
“Yes, please, Sir.”  
“Okay. Go and prepare yourself and get into position.”

Jackson skips into the bedroom with a happy grin. The revelation went better than he hoped. They already knew, for a start, but they reacted positively about it being Isaac too. What’s that saying? ‘Have your cake and eat it’? Maybe he will, this time. 

When they enter the room, Jackson is kneeling on a small cushion, his butt resting on his ankles and his hands behind his back.  
“We want to use you, today, pup. Where are you on that?” Chris’ voice is a rough growl and Jackson loves how he’s already well into what’s happening: that he can have that effect on his Dom.  
“Green, Sir.”  
“Good boy.”

Jackson allows himself to be maneuvered into whatever positions Chris wants him in as he first warms him up with a hard spanking, and then binds him to the leather-padded horse, where Jackson loses count on the toys that are used on him over the next hour, only vaguely aware of Peter watching from the armchair, leaning back and allowing his arousal to build without touching. 

Jackson is softly floating by the time Chris has decided he’s played long enough and slides in with no resistance, and he senses rather than sees Peter approaching.  
“You have a reason?” he asks Chris, softly, almost as if he doesn’t want Jackson to hear.  
“Do I need one? He’s perfect in my hands.”  
“True. The pair of you make quite the sight.”  
“Join us. I have a feeling he’ll be amenable to anything you want right now.”

Peter bends to Jackson’s level, running his fingers through coarse blond hair and gently nuzzling behind his ear.  
“You want me too, baby?”  
Jackson tries to open his eyes, but knows it’s a lazy, drunk effort. He manages a murmur of pleasure though, to let his Daddy know that that _is_ what he wants, very much.

The next thing he knows is he’s clinging to Sir’s strong body, being carried to Daddy, who’s back in the armchair, and being lowered. Peter wraps him safely, and he just rests his head back, embracing the intense feeling when Sir slowly presses in alongside Daddy. He doesn’t have to move when they do this; Chris likes to have control over it, and he lifts Jackson’s leg to hook his shoulder.   
“That’s it, pup, make those pretty noises for us.”  
Jackson doesn’t have to fake them; all he can do is whimper and mewl in overwhelming pleasure as his insides are touched in what feels like a million different points, one thrust stretching, the next deep and electrifying. There’s a comfort to this, regardless of them not doing it very often. In fact, it’s usually saved for special occasions, but Jackson adores how close it makes him feel to both of his Doms, as Chris takes it in turns to share sweet kisses with him and with Peter, between both of them murmuring encouragement to him, Peter nibbling at his ear lobe. He comes with a drawn out cry, not having needed to even touch himself, other than the friction of Chris’ abs, throwing his head back as Peter rolls a nipple firmly and bites down on his shoulder.

Later, when everyone is cleaned up and hydrated, Jackson snuggles up to Peter in their huge bed and holds Chris’ hand on his hip as the other man spoons behind him.  
“Are you going to speak to Isaac, baby?”  
“I guess, I don’t know what I’ll say though.”  
“Just remember to be honest with him. It might do you good to develop something with him. We support you in whatever direction you want to go, pup.”  
Jackson isn’t sure what Chris means by that, but he’s so sleepy – loaded up on satisfaction and endorphins – and he can feel it sucking him under, so he lets it go.

* * * * * 

If anything, he’s even more flaky the next day. He’s been thinking about what Chris said, about what he might have meant about supporting whatever he chooses. They weren’t surprised by his admission – not even a little bit. Maybe it was his subtle way of revealing they’re finally sick of him being around, being a drain on their emotions, getting in the way. He wouldn’t have said it before, because they always make it look like they care, as if they don’t resent the additional pressure his neediness puts on their, more longstanding, relationship. But, now, he doesn’t know how to feel. 

Alan Deaton is in the other make up chair, so Jackson doesn’t want to say anything to Isaac, who looks adorable, as usual. He’s grinning a lot this morning, and Jackson might be suspicious of what Stiles has said to him – as a lot of the grins definitely seem directed at him – but he does trust Stiles not to mouth off, so maybe it’s something else. Finally, Alan is done, and Jackson swaps seats.

He avoids eye contact, because he still has no idea what to say, or even if he wants to say anything. Peter looked really serious and a little sad when he dropped Jackson off and told him he should follow his heart, and if his heart led him to Isaac then Peter would support that. Jackson had found himself with a lump in his throat, unable to find the words to respond – because it sounded a lot like Peter was giving him permission to leave what they have. To have something ‘normal’ with Isaac. But Jackson doesn’t want normal, even if he does want Isaac, and Stiles’ comment about Isaac being too fragile to cope with what he has with Chris and Peter comes back to him.

“Are you okay, Jackson? You seem distracted.”  
“Oh, uh, yeah. Just thinking on some stuff.”  
“Do you wanna go for a drink when filming finishes? Who know, maybe I can be a good ear?”  
There are plenty of things that seem a bad idea, and getting drunk around Isaac right now is up at the top of the list, so why Jackson immediately agrees is a total mystery.

* * * * * 

He’s not sure how many beers he’s had. And there were at least three shots in there somewhere. Isaac hasn’t had as much, but that doesn’t change the fact that they’re currently on the dancefloor, and Jackson’s hands are on Isaac’s narrow hips, his thumbs stroking the ridges of bone as Isaac rests his head on Jackson’s shoulder and giggles intermittently.   
“Hey, you can’t get out of it, you know?”  
“Get out of what?”  
“You’re meant to be telling me all your problems so I can help you and be a good friend. I wanna be a good friend for you Jackson.”  
Jackson groans. This isn’t something he can talk about right now. “You know what, Isaac, you are a good friend. I’ve enjoyed myself tonight. But I think we should save the heart-to-heart.”

Isaac huffs and grabs his hand, dragging him back to their table.  
“You don’t get out of it like that. You’ve been bothered about something. Tell me.” Drunk Isaac isn’t quite as soft as regular Isaac, and he looks adorably pouty and very determined as he sits back and crosses his arms. It’s a bad idea, but fuck it.  
“Fine. You want to know? I’m attracted to you, Isaac.”  
“What? No. You can’t be.”  
“Uh, I can-,”  
“But you have Peter and Chris.”  
“You know about that, huh?”  
“Of course I do. I didn’t realize it was meant to be a secret. And what? You’re just announcing you want me? What do you expect? Are you trying to have an affair? That sucks, Jackson. Those guys worship you, it’s so obvious. I can’t believe you’d do such a shitty thing.”  
“Wait, no. It isn’t like that-,”  
“Oh sure, it never is, is it? People like you, all hot and confident, and you just think you can have anything you want, and you feel like people like me are just here for your pleasure, to be used by you.”

Isaac is breathing heavily, red-faced, and Jackson doesn’t even know how to defend himself. Because what does he say? ‘Yes, please, ‘using’ is quite a major component in what I have with Peter and Chris, and by the way, they’re Doms, and I’d really like if you’d be willing to join in, and for the long term, because even though you probably think we barely know each other I’m totally, ridiculously, in love with you. No pressure. But also, I love Chris and Peter, and I’m not even sure they want you to become permanent, even if you have an opinion on that, so there’s another layer for you to suddenly have dumped in your lap’? Yeah, nah, that isn’t happening. So, because he’s Jackson, and this stuff is still so alien to him, regardless of how much better he’d thought Chris and Peter have made him, he flaps his mouth like a dying fish instead, and Isaac grabs his scarf and positively _flounces_ away, in a way that makes Jackson just want to grab him and pull him onto his lap and kiss him silly. Fuck.

Jackson manages to get his mind vaguely together in a few minutes but, nevertheless, by the time he gets outside, Isaac is long gone. He sends a message, begging Isaac for the opportunity to explain, though isn’t that surprised to get no response. He can only hope that Isaac is willing to speak to him when he calms down.

Chris collects him without complaint, and doesn’t even force Jackson to talk. Not until they get through the door of the penthouse, anyway.  
“What’s the matter, baby?” Peter says as Jackson strips down to his boxers.  
“Tried to talk to Isaac. Fucked up.”  
“Language, baby. Come here.” He puts his whiskey down and opens his arms. Jackson sneaks into them with relief, pressing his face against Peter’s bristly cheek.  
“Was awful. He thought I wanted an affair, and I didn’t even know what to say to him, because I don’t want an affair, but I don’t know what I want.”  
“What do you mean, baby? I thought you wanted him to join us?”  
“But I don’t want something temporary, and I know you said I should go and have a normal relationship with him, but I don’t want to lose you and Chris, I love you.” Jackson’s sobbing by now, clutching onto Peter’s shirt.

“What are you talking about, pup?”  
“This is your fault, Chris.” Peter sounds vitriolic, and Jackson whimpers even as he pulls himself in tighter.  
“What? How?”  
“You were all; ‘let Jackson guide him to us’, ‘it’ll frighten him less if it’s Jackson who leads it’. And now look what’s happened.”  
“It’s clearly a communication issue. Besides, don’t pretend you weren’t afraid Jackson _did_ have a desire that would take him away from us. Jackson, pup, we never wanted you to leave us, even for someone as delightful as Isaac. It’s been obvious for a while your feelings for him were growing rather than going away, and we’ve talked about how it would work with another sub. We think Isaac would be a very promising candidate.”  
“What- Chris, really? ‘Candidate’?”  
“You know I don’t mean it like that. You do know, don’t you pup?”

Jackson sat up, brushing the moisture from his eyes with a slightly embarrassed huff.  
“Not really.” He takes a huge breath, trying to calm himself, though Peter’s hand stroking his spine helps ground him a little. He’s a lot better at talking about his emotions than he used to be, thanks to Chris and Peter and Stiles, but the old bar wasn’t exactly set high, so this isn’t easy. “If you don’t want to have this thing anymore, you know you only have to say.” His eyes are on the floor, and he take several gulping breaths, terrified that Chris might just call him on it – might just admit that he and Peter _don’t_ want this anymore, not with him. 

To his surprise, Chris all but throws himself down, kneeling between Jackson’s knees, huge, strong hands resting on Jackson’s bare thighs.  
“Jackson, don’t even say that. You, and Peter, and I…this is it for me, forever. We might add another person, who would hopefully become just as important, but we don’t change us, not if I have any say about it.”  
“Really?”  
“Really, baby boy. You didn’t realize? I thought we made it clear how much we loved you.” Jackson feels guilty at Peter’s heartbroken tone – even more because they _do_ make it clear.  
“I guess…I know I’m younger than you, and immature. I know you love me, but I guess I figured that at some point you’d get bored of me, or I’d get too old, or you wouldn’t want to be in the lifestyle anymore.”  
“Never, sweet pup, never. You’ll be our boy when you’re fifty, if you still want us old folk then.”  
“I will, Sir, I promise.”

Chris sits close and pulls Jackson to his lap, ignoring a jokingly huffing Peter.  
“So what do we do now, Sir?” Jackson asks, wrapping his arms around Chris’ shoulders.  
“About Isaac? I’m not sure. What we have may prove too much for him: I still have that concern. But I do think you should talk to him about what happened tonight. Set his mind at ease, at least. We can rethink the rest of it when neither you nor he are distressed.”  
“Thank you, Sir.” Jackson burrows into Chris’ neck, pulling back just enough to plant a soft kiss, which Chris responds to, massaging the back of Jackson’s head for a moment, gaining a sweet moan.  
“I think you’re about due for a maintenance spanking, aren’t you, young man?”  
Jackson giggles, kissing him again. “Yes, please, Sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think 😁


	4. Take the Poison of your Age

“Hey, calm down, sweetie.” Stiles rubs Isaac’s back a little harder than is comfortable, but he recognizes a panic attack coming when he sees it and knows a little extra force might circumvent it. Thank God he and Derek had been out for dinner when he got Isaac’s breathless phone call. “Take deep, deep breaths, baby, good and slow, you can do it, I’m here. Focus on your coffee cup.”

Isaac had calmed down when they met him at the coffee shop, but telling Stiles what had happened in the bar had set him off again. When Isaac’s breathing has finally relaxed, Stiles guides his hands to the mug before picking his own up and taking a sip.

“So…” Derek starts, and Stiles shoots him a look of disapproval.  
“It’s okay, Sti. I’m being dumb. It’s not a big deal.”  
“Of course it is. If it makes you feel this way it’s a big deal.”  
“I’m just so – so grossed out. I know Jackson used to be a total slut, but the thought that he wanted to run around with me behind their backs… And they adore him. How could he do that to them? I just – he’s not the person I thought he was.”  
“Did he say that, though? That he wanted an affair?”  
“He said he was ‘attracted’ to me,” Isaac sneers.  
“Yeah, but did he say ‘have an affair with me’?”

Isaac screws his forehead up.  
“No-oo, I guess not. But so what?” he finally spits out.  
“Well, I don’t want to put words in Jackson’s mouth, but he told me he liked you. And I don’t think he wanted to have something with you that Chris and Peter didn’t know about.” Stiles speaks slowly, worried about what Isaac’s reaction might be to that.  
“Oh. Huh. Okay.”  
“How would that work?” Derek wonders.  
“Dude, do you really want to know how Peter’s love life works?”  
“Ugh, no. I already know way too much.”  
“Like what?” Isaac leans forward.  
“I’m not sure you want to know either, sweetie. Listen, all I know is that Jackson was going to tell them, and if he said something to you I guess he had. But I have no idea what his plan was in telling you.”  
“I kind of dragged it out of him. He was being weird and I made him tell me. But then I wouldn’t let him explain himself. I just ran off.”  
“So you don’t know whether he even wants something or was just telling you to explain why he’s been weird. Or what Chris and Peter think about it.”  
“No. I just assumed. I’m used to people wanting something and taking it. I figured he was the same.”

Stiles knows Isaac has had the kind of misfortune that makes the term ‘bad luck’ a massive understatement. His mother died when he was young – about the same age as Stiles had been when his mom had died, which they’d bonded over when Isaac had finally trusted Stiles enough to reveal it. The similarities in their childhoods had ended there though, as Isaac’s father was a violent drunk, who beat Isaac continuously pretty much his whole life until he was killed in a bar brawl when Isaac was sixteen, and his older brother had gone MIA at around the same time. Isaac had been circumspect talking about the family who’d taken him in – a school friend, apparently, but he got a little odd whenever it came up, and Stiles had a nasty suspicion that it was another step in Isaac’s life of being taken advantage of. 

Stiles hates that. Isaac is sweet. Like a human puppy; a little naïve and a little eager. Someone who needs to be protected, and deserves it, but instead is like a beacon for bastards. Though this whole thing with Jackson has Stiles wanting nothing more than to stay the hell away from the potential for being a massive clusterfuck, he had hoped that they could somehow get something that works out of it. He’s seen how happy Chris and Peter make Jackson, and Isaac deserves that too.

So, despite wanting to stay out of it, he gets involved instead.  
“I think you should take some time to think about it. But you’d be behaving fairly if you give Jackson an opportunity to explain himself. I don’t know what he’s hoping for, or if it would suit you, but that’s what I’d do.”  
“Yeah. Maybe you’re right. I feel stupid now. I should have given him a chance. Jeez, his face. He looked so sad when I walked off.”  
“Don’t feel guilty,” Derek leans in, “it’s understandable you’d be freaked out. If you decide to, you can apologize later, but don’t feel bad for reacting.”

Stiles takes Derek’s hand and squeezes it. He has no idea how he got so lucky, but he has sense enough to be grateful. Isaac looks at their joined hands, his mouth downturned for a moment.  
“You’re right. Thanks.” He stands up, wrapping his scarf.  
“Where are you going?”  
“I need to think. I’m walking home.”  
“No way,” Derek growls, “we’re driving you.”  
“Guys, I can practically see my apartment block from here – I walk down this brightly lit street and I’m there. I need to think, and I do that best when I’m walking.”  
“No,” Derek insists, “we’re parked five minutes that way.” He points in the opposite direction.  
“If you drive me, I’m only going to go out again when I get home.”

Stiles knows Isaac has a core of steel when he’s decided to be obstinate about something, and that he isn’t lying that he’ll go out again.  
“Babe, there’s a lot of people on the street, it’s better than him wondering around down side streets if he goes out again. Here,” he shuffles out of his cotton jacket. “The red suits you.” Isaac giggles, pulling his scarf tighter.  
“Thanks Stiles. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He hugs them both and leaves the coffee shop, head down.  
“More coffee?” Derek asks.  
“I’ll be up all night.”  
“Perfect.”

* * * * * 

Unsurprisingly, Stiles is blurry the next morning. It isn’t fair how Derek leaps out of bed at six am looking like a freaking model to do pre-breakfast yoga when Stiles is dragging himself to the kitchen in rumpled clothes and gray skin.  
“Don’t you fucking dare,” he growls as Derek passes him his coffee with a wide smile.  
“Wasn’t going to. Surprised you can walk at all, after last night.”  
“You just had to go there, didn’t you? Fucker.” But he can’t help the minute upturn in his lips, and he’s still smirking in happy memories when they arrive on location thirty minutes later.

“Jesus, Stiles. Go see Alison. You’re first for costume and make up.”  
“Wouldn’t be a problem, Chris, if you weren’t making me work at ungodly-o’clock in the morning.”  
“Wouldn’t be a problem if you didn’t stay up all night fucking. Make sure that limp’s gone before you have to do the running scene.”  
“Rude,” Stiles whispers as he heads to the trailer to find Alison.

“Where’s Isaac?” he points to the counter where the make up is laid out, as if the boy himself will miraculously appear before him.  
“Am I chopped liver?” Alison huffs. “Why’m I not good enough for anyone this morning?”  
“You’re good enough for me,” Scott bounds up the trailer steps and grabs Alison at the hips, lifting and spinning her. Stiles suppresses a giggle at her stoic face and sits back into the make up chair so she can make him look human.

Luckily he’s finished his scenes before he sees Jackson face-to-face, having only caught a glimpse of him earlier, looking like thunder.  
“It did not go well,” he enunciates when he’s dragged Stiles behind the trailer.  
“I know.”  
“How? And in that case do you know why he’s avoiding me?”  
“I saw him after your hugely unsuccessful declaration.”  
“Fuck.” Jackson pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes, putting enough desperation into that one profanity that Stiles carefully reaches over to pat his shoulder.   
“I don’t think it’s that bad. He seemed happier about things when we left him. Just wanted to think about things.”  
“So where is he?”  
“I don’t know. Maybe he has the day off?”  
“He doesn’t. Chris and Peter were expecting him today. I thought he was just late at first. He still isn’t replying to my messages.”  
“What?” Stiles isn’t sure what that trail of black he can feel climbing up his spine is, but it doesn’t feel good. “Has he ever not come in?” he asks, already knowing the answer is no. Isaac has never missed a day.

Jackson seems to get it – or maybe he’s just feeding off the low level panic that Stiles can feel building – and he grabs Stiles’ hand, dragging him to Chris so they can both stand, bouncing on the balls of their feet as he wraps a scene with Scott and Erika.  
“What’s the matter?” Chris finally turns, placing a reassuring hand on Jackson’s shoulder.  
“Isaac isn’t here.”  
“Okay,” he tilts his head, and then his brow clears. “Okay. But you can’t think…”  
“We don’t think anything,” Stiles insists, and then ruins it. “Yet.”  
“Why don’t the two of you head to Isaac’s apartment?”

Derek comes too, because he’s the only one with a car there. On the drive, Stiles tries to get his thoughts in order. He doesn’t know exactly what he was suspecting when Chris asked. He just knows there’s nothing good. Isaac hasn’t responded to any messages, and his phone is going straight to voicemail, like it’s turned off. None of what is happening is like Isaac, and Stiles is taking the weirdness of what happened the night before into account. Even if he didn’t want to face Jackson, he would have told someone. Stiles refuses to believe he’s done anything stupid, but he has a feeling that’s where Jackson’s thoughts are going, as he angrily and ineffectually hits out at the locked lobby door when there’s no answer to their panicked ringing of the buzzer.

“Maybe he’s sick?” Stiles is feeling a little lightheaded, and Derek squeezes his fingers, grounding him.  
“Um, maybe.” After his outburst at the door it’s clear Jackson’s trying to keep Stiles calm too, even if he’s probably feeling equal amounts of panic. Either that, or he’s going into shock.

Stiles hears an expectant cough and looks up to see Derek holding the lobby door open, smiling warmly at the old lady who clearly opened it for him.  
“Thank you, ma’am, I appreciate it.”  
“You just make sure Isaac isn’t sick. He’s a lovely boy. Tell him I’ll bring my chicken noodle soup over for him later.”  
“We’ll do that, ma’am.”

Stiles and Jackson push past, weakly nodding their own thanks at the old lady and running over to the elevator.  
“What floor,” Jackson demands when Derek joins them in the cab.  
“Four,” Stiles tells him, turning to Derek. “Who knew you were that smooth?”  
“Er, you did.”   
Stiles grins and pokes him, but his face falls instantly, suddenly nervous about what they might find.

As it turns out, it’s nothing. Derek opens the door with a wire he has on his key ring (saying, with a shrug, “Danny taught me.”), but the apartment is empty. It’s tidy-ish. As far as can be expected for someone as flighty as Isaac, anyway. A scarf on the back of the couch, though not the one he’d been wearing last night, a used coffee mug on the kitchen counter next to an open mystery novel and a plate with a few crumbs on it, sneakers messily strewn by the front door. Stiles checks the solitary bedroom, but it’s the same there – the bed’s made and the overfull closet door is open. But there’s certainly no sign of a struggle.

“There’s no note,” Jackson’s voice seems to be wavering between panicked and relieved as he looks vaguely around the living space.   
“Your coat isn’t here,” Derek says to Stiles.  
“His phone’s here. And his wallet,” Jackson announces from the console table near the bedroom door.  
“What? Hang on. He had his phone last night – he called us, Der. So he definitely came home. And he wouldn’t have gone out without it – this is Isaac.”  
“Seriously, Stiles, stop talking in riddles. What the hell are you saying? Clearly he did go out without it. He’s not here, his phone is.”  
“You’re going to say I’m getting too involved with that mystery…” his worried eyes are turned to Derek, who shrugs and nods to encourage Stiles to keep going with his theory. “It’s just, he wouldn’t have gone without his phone, even if it was just for a walk. So he didn’t go out for a walk, but he’s not here, and he was wearing my coat.”  
“You think he’s done something bad? To himself? That would be reason not to take his phone.”  
“No, I don’t. I really don’t think Isaac would be the kind of person who wouldn’t explain with a note, and I also _really_ don’t think that’s where his head was at last night.”  
“But he’s gone, Stiles,” Jackson wails, finally losing it and slumping onto the couch.  
“I don’t think he went of his own accord. The place isn’t tossed, and Isaac’s physically a lot stronger than he looks, so he’d have fought if someone dragged him off. There would have been some kind of tell in the room. I think someone tricked him to leave the apartment.”  
“That’s crazy,” Jackson says with a watery voice.  
“Maybe. But people are going missing.”  
“It’s a pretty big coincidence if Isaac was randomly picked,” Derek sounds wary.  
“Maybe it isn’t a coincidence. We need more though.”  
“We need evidence.” 

Stiles is about to huff at Derek for stating the obvious, but he’s turned away, making a phone call.  
“Peter, can you send me Jordan Parrish’s contact details?”  
“…”  
“I’ll explain later, I just need to ask him for a favor.”  
“…”  
“Thanks.”

Stiles doesn’t interrupt as Derek waits for a message and then fires off a long text. It’s only a few minutes later he gets a response.  
“Come on. We’re going to the precinct.”

* * * * * 

Stiles is comfortable in a police station, even if this one’s a lot shinier than the small-town Sherriff’s office his dad runs. He knows Jordan Parrish, because he’s their police consultant, but hangs back when he shakes Derek’s hand, because he’s suddenly nervous. His idea is so ridiculous and overblown, and Parrish is just going to laugh at him.

“How come you have an office?” he asks when they get there, Parrish pulling in an extra chair for Jackson.  
“I’m in charge of a lot of the station’s PR stuff. It’s why I’m your liaison on the show. They think it looks good to give me an office, like you might not realize what a mess the bullpen is if you’re in here.” Stiles chuckles, and considers that Parrish is a good choice for the role. He’s handsome, and personable, without being over the top. He puts people at ease, and Stiles is already feeling calmer.

With prompting from Derek, Stiles tells Parrish his theory, including what he thinks might have happened to Isaac. He winces when he’s finished, waiting to be laughed out of the room, but, to his surprise, when he finally braves looking up, Parrish is gazing out of the small window, looking perturbed. He finally brings himself to with a slap to his thigh, making them all jump.  
“Right. I don’t suppose you noticed cameras around Isaac’s place?”   
Stiles shrugs but Derek nods. “There’s a camera in the porch. Where the keypad for the door is.”  
“That’s great. And the building manager can let us see that. Makes things simpler, not needing to get court orders. I might struggle to get this on the official list.”  
“What does that mean?” Jackson asks.  
“Just that I’m interested by Stiles’ theory, but I know my boss is going to say there isn’t enough to launch an official investigation. You can report Isaac missing – there’s no waiting period – but Mr Lahey is an adult, and has been missing for less than twenty four hours at this point, and there isn’t anything real in the other stuff, not yet. We need more. But I have enough free time, and a good enough relationship with the Captain, that I should be able to wing it to investigate off the books, provided I stay within the law. It means I’ll have to be careful about police resources, and getting in front of a judge will be a big no.”

“So, Stiles, you think actors are being targeted?”  
“Maybe. I don’t know. I only have three disappearances to go on, and they’ve all acted on TV shows.”  
“And one body.”  
“Yeah.”  
“That makes it urgent enough as far as I’m concerned. But we need to know if there’s anything else in it.” He sighs, and Stiles knows they aren’t going to like what comes next. “We need to check missing persons. I can filter by occupation, but it isn’t going to pick up people who aren’t acting any more. It wouldn’t have picked up Isaac. And without a filter, we’re looking at thousands of people.”  
“We can filter by sex though. And age; maybe eighteen to thirty. And if it’s unofficial, we can get some of the others to help.”

So, later that afternoon finds almost a dozen people on various surfaces in Derek’s apartment, clutches swathes of print outs, reading through descriptions looking for anything that might link missing people. Once they’d limited the timescale, age and sex of the missing people, they still ended up with several hundred cases to examine. 

While everyone is searching, Parrish lines up a laptop on the coffee table.  
“Hang on, we can link that to the TV,” Danny says, clicking some links and turning the 74-inch television on. Everyone stops what they’re doing to watch the feed from the camera outside Isaac’s apartment.   
“Look, there’s Isaac.” Even on the black and white image, Isaac’s lanky frame is clear as he walks into shot, unlocking the door with his keycode and entering the building. They watch for a few minutes, but nothing happens, so Parrish skips forward.  
“Wait, stop,” Stiles instructs. “Who’s that?” Someone has approached the door, wearing a dark colored jacket with a hood pulled up. They don’t look up, and keep their head turned, as if they know there’s a camera.  
“That’s weird. It’s like they’re hiding on purpose. Is it a guy or a girl?” Jackson asks. It’s not possible to tell. They’re wearing bulky pants – combat style – and heavy looking boots.  
“Could be a girl or a small guy,” Lydia shrugs. “Not someone big enough to overpower Isaac. Skip forward.”  
“No, don’t,” Stiles leans forward, watching the person press an apartment number into the keypad and speak urgently into the speaker. “We don’t think someone actually snatched him. He was drawn out somehow.”

The person steps away from the camera then, back out to the street, and Stiles sighs. Maybe it was nothing after all. But then they see Isaac appear, throwing open the door. He looks panicked, still in Stiles’ coat, his head flipping back and forth like he’s looking for something up and down the street. Then he looks forward and his face clears, before he runs past the camera.

“We need to know what was on the sidewalk,” Stiles says urgently to Parrish.  
“We aren’t getting that. I’m sorry. I can see it was something, but there’s no way it’s enough for a court order. And that’s even if there are street cameras there.”  
“There are,” Stiles looks to Danny who bites his lip and nods. They all know Danny is a whizz with computers but Stiles knows it’s a lot to ask him to get into county records. They’ll have to see how it goes.

“Possible,” when they’ve got back to reviewing the cases, Lydia passes a sheet over Stiles’ head to Jordan. “Fits the physical profile, though he was the assistant to an agent, not an actor.”  
“Could work. We aren’t sure of the link yet.” Jordan takes the paper with a smile as Stiles rolls his eyes. Their flirting is subtle, but he already has a bet going with Jackson and Derek about how long it will take Parrish to find enough courage to ask her out. Stiles plucks the paper out of his hand and stands by the whiteboard they’d picked up from Target on their way over, adding the name and identifying aspects to the list they’re creating. 

Four hours and a lot more bits of paper later, they have a list of thirty names and everyone is slopped around, overfull from the pizza Derek had ordered, but they’ve finished going through the names.  
“Now what?” Peter asks quietly, stroking his fingers through a dozing Jackson’s hair.  
“We’re going to have to look more intently at these names. Even if there’s a link, it’s unlikely all of these people are connected. We need to break it down.”

“Where do we start though?” Scott screws his face up.  
“We think the industry is the main link, but there must be something more than that. You said that Perry Gruber worked for an agent. Who? Maybe there’s something in the clients?” Alison asks.  
“Yes, that’s something,” Danny jumps up, suddenly whirring to life, “I can go there, tell them I’m looking to cast something, see if any of these other people who were actively working as actors are on the books.”  
“You’ll have to be more subtle than listing the names, and just don’t do anything illegal,” Parrish warns, apparently already having Danny’s number.  
“Promise,” he winks, but Stiles whispers to Lydia to go with him because if anyone can distract someone away from their computer so Danny can work his magic, it’s her. 

“I’m going to speak to Brett’s sister tomorrow,” Stiles tells them, “maybe we can work in pairs and go see some of the other family members.”  
“Why pairs?” Chris asks. “It’ll be faster to go alone.”  
“Dude, we’re not making a shlocky horror film here. You know if something bad is going on it’s likely that as least one of us will be speaking to someone who has done very bad things. No one goes on their own. Everyone, go home and sleep, we’ll revisit what we’ve learned tomorrow.”

Derek gets rid of everyone, eventually, and slides into bed next to Stiles, kissing his shoulder.  
“You think this is going somewhere?”  
“Yeah, I do. I know it was a crazy idea, but we’re finding links. And we have to find Isaac. I hate to think of him out there somewhere, on his own.”  
“You really think he’s been taken?”  
“I’m certain. He wouldn’t just go off. He doesn’t do camping and hiking – he’s just not the kind of person who wants to be away from everyone.”  
“He wanted to be on his own last night.”  
“Yeah, for like twenty minutes. Listen, if he comes back tomorrow because he just wanted to go off-grid for a day, you can laugh at me and call me an idiot, but I’m not risking it.”  
“Maybe that person was a friend who needed him.”  
“Maybe. I still don’t think he’d have gone off that way without something hinky going on. Besides, Alison’s his best friend, and I don’t think he has another secret bunch of friends who are important enough to get that reaction that we don’t know about. I think he was tricked, and he’s out there and needs us.” The idea that it could be too late to help him burrows into Stiles’ mind and he shudders, sliding further under the soft sheets.

“You’re worried.”  
“You aren’t?”  
“Yeah, I am, but do you need your mind taken out of it?”  
“Can you just hold me tonight?”  
“With pleasure.” Derek gently pulls him close, and Stiles rests his cheek against the light fur of his chest, taking deep breaths to center himself, refusing to give in to panic when Isaac needs him.


	5. Little Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, okay, phew - I really liked writing this but...I hope it isn't boring (ikr? but the process for a writer and for a reader is so different). 
> 
> It's from Lydia's perspective, which I'm super excited by, because I just don't *do* writing from female persp often at all (nature of the beast when you write bxb) so it was fun, plus it's just throwing a bunch of exposition in there - it's a big jump in clues/developing the mystery.

Lydia readies herself for the day with perhaps a touch more precision than usual, not that it would be apparent to anyone else. She knows she appears self-assured, and that’s because she is. But, if something about Stiles’ crazy idea, and Isaac’s sudden disappearance, makes her nervous, then an extra layer of powder and her most structured business suit isn’t going to hurt.

She nods a brief goodbye to the concierge on the way out, and thanks the doorman, Bill, as she steps into the bright morning sun, her patent Louboutins clicking down the concrete steps as she spots Danny’s gleaming charcoal car. She sinks gratefully against the comfortable leather upholstery and greets Danny.

“Do we have a plan?” he asks as he pulls out into the heavy flow of traffic.  
“Follow my lead.”  
Danny shrugs as if he hadn’t expected anything different and flicks the radio on.

When they arrive at the low-rise office block in West Hollywood Lydia leads them in, approaching the reception desk.  
“We have an appointment with Ari Zimmer.”  
The glamorous blond efficiently clicks away at her computer and asks them to take a seat. Normally Lydia might have become imperious about being kept waiting, when they’re on time for the appointment she’d booked the day before, but there’s more at stake than her ego today. 

She crosses her elegant legs and leans closer to Danny.  
“If you get a chance to get to the computer take it.”  
“I’ll need time,” he murmurs back, flicking unseeingly through an industry magazine.  
“You’ll have it. Don’t waste it.”

“Ms Martin, Ari will see you now,” the blonde announces, guiding them down a short corridor and into a crammed office, where a middle-aged bald man stands to great them, shaking hands and spending just a little longer than appropriate casting his eyes over Danny. Damn. She’ll have to slightly adjust her approach to distract him.

They do the standard small talk for a few minutes, and Lydia discovers with pleasure, for the sake of her developing plan, that their books are far larger that the frayed offices may make it seem, which she questions with her customary bluntness. Zimmer tells her it’s because his preference is to use high class hotels for meetings, as it’s cheaper than permanently running expensive downtown offices. She recognizes an intelligence in the man that somehow reminds her of Stiles, and, seemingly, a similar refusal to accept he’s actually doing extremely well for himself. Though she’s inordinately grateful that the last-minute demand for an appointment, only granted because of a lucky combination of Lydia’s persistence and an unexpected cancellation in Zimmer’s diary, brought her and Danny here, with hopeful access to his electronic records, instead of the Four Seasons.

“So tell me, who are you casting?”  
“We need a young man who bears a resemblance to this one.” Lydia hands him a headshot of Isaac, a few years old, and he nods.  
“I have countless young men who fit the physical mold. How close though? Taking over a role?”  
“No, it’s a new role,” Danny lies, “Isaac only filmed a few scenes before he walked out on us.”

Lydia raises a perfect eyebrow at that. They aren’t meant to be talking about the disappearances, in case anyone they interview is involved in some way, but Danny lifts his shoulders minutely, leaning forward and widening his eyes at Zimmer.  
“We’re in a real bind, because we already started filming, and we lose millions if we stop now. The role was written for him, you see, so everything in the shoot is tied in. If we suddenly drop someone light-haired in, for example, it will require changes to all the CGI we have lined up.”

Lydia has no idea if Danny’s even vaguely telling the truth – she’s never been involved with an actor in that kind of role, and , as far as she knows, neither has Danny – but Zimmer seems to buy it, or maybe he’s just buying into Danny’s big brown eyes, but either way he nods knowingly.  
“I can help you out, I’m sure of it. My assistant is very efficient and has automated all of our records.” He looks perturbed for a moment before his brow clears and he calls, “Carrie!”  
The blonde receptionist arrived moments later with a warm smile.  
“Ari, I do wish you’d at least use the intercom, even if you won’t message.” He shrugs slightly pathetically and, despite his relative young age, Lydia is reminded now of a doddering grandparent, and she watches Carrie settle down and click away, making Zimmer flash a small, smug smile. One to watch, ponders Lydia, thinking that this is a man who knows how to get his own way.

“Danny, we can go and get a coffee while the ladies are looking at the clients?”  
Not this time, though.  
“Actually, Danny really needs to be the one to go through. Perhaps you can introduce me to some of your other agents.” Lydia is guiding the man out of the room before he knows what’s really happening.

She meets a few other agents; busy-acting men and women being enthusiastic on phones, and towards her when Ari erroneously introduces her as PR to the stars. It can’t be helped – she’d worked hard to create the impression with him when she convinced him to make the appointment. But it isn’t until they’re settled in a dingy kitchenette with instant coffee that she feels like she’s won enough trust to push a little further.  
“You seem busy, even with Carrie to help.”  
“I can’t tell you – she’s been a godsend. My last assistant just walked out. Went home on a Friday, never came back on the Monday. The selfishness of some people…I was helping him, too, setting him up with clients. He wasn’t going to stay an assistant; he had a knack.”  
“It’s cruel, to treat you that way, when you’re helping him…” she prods, suspecting a little more than simple employer benefaction.  
“I suppose young people are like that these days. Like your actor. They take what they want and then they leave.”  
“You think he did that?”  
“I like to think it wasn’t like that. He didn’t steal any clients. He was a country boy. Maybe he went home to buttfuck, Indianna. Podunk town where nothing is complicated.” Zimmer’s face is twisted into a sad grimace and Lydia can see that there’s more, but equally that he’s unlikely to reveal anything without suspicion over why she’s asking.

“Zimmer is in love with Perry Gruber.”  
Danny has pulled into traffic, but quickly glances at her.  
“The assistant? You think Zimmer is the reason for his disappearance?”  
“Like, had something to do with it? No. He’s bitter, but because he thinks the boy ran out on him, and it’s hurt him. Whether the boy really did just escape of his own accord, that’s a different question, and I don’t know.”  
“Two of our names are on Zimmer’s client list. I forwarded their details to Stiles. I forwarded all the employee files too, in case it’s someone other than Zimmer there.”  
“So that’s three of them with a direct connection to Zimmer. It’s a long way off a connection for the thirty names.”  
“Let’s find out what everyone else got.”

It takes them ninety minutes to get to Derek’s in the lunchtime traffic, and they walk into a scene from Beautiful Mind. Stiles has two whiteboards now, and markers in every color under the sun, and is moving between the boards, underlining and scribbling spider crawl, running his hand through his hair, which spikes up every which way, and mumbling to himself.

They sit at the kitchen counter, sipping juice while Derek puts cookies into the oven.  
“How long has he been like this?”  
“Since we got back from Brett’s sister’s. I was there, but I have no idea what she said to set him off, just that he was practically vibrating with trying to hide it, which was the right thing to do. Poor girl’s heartbroken. He stepped up a notch when he got your email, Danny. Don’t think we’ll get anything out of him yet, he’s waiting for Parrish.”

Parrish is frustratingly late, as far as Lydia (and, she's sure, Stiles) is concerned. Stiles has received several messages from the others, a few of which had him buzzing even harder, and people have arrived, passing on information which either has him bright eyed or frustratedly scrubbing out something he’s written previously. 

“Oh, thank God!” The exclamation is out before Lydia can stop herself when she opens the door to Jordan, though the charming smile he gives her is worth it.  
“Waiting for me?” he chuckles.  
“Well, Stiles is. I swear he will spin off like a top if you don’t listen to his theory right now.”  
“Okay, it’s what I’m here for.”

“Thank God you’re here!” Stiles unintentionally echoes Lydia. Derek’s looking a little worried now, as Stiles is getting increasingly manic. Jordan pats his shoulder as everyone gathers around, munching on Derek’s cookies and drinking tea or coffee.  
“Why don’t you tell me what you’ve found.”  
“I don’t know!” Stiles wails, rubbing his eyes. “There’s so much; everyone got so much information, but I only found one thing, and it’s ridiculous.”  
“Well, try us with it. Theories are there to be either proven or disproven.”

Lydia admires, so much, how calm Jordan is, even in the contagious swell of Stiles’ overexcitement. How his behavior is calming every other person in the room down, including Stiles, who finally takes a deep breath and pulls his boards closer.  
“Okay. I have one thing that connects twelve of the thirty. I haven’t found any single thing that connects any larger group. I’ve considered jobs, homes, shopping, friends. Obviously there could still be something, and maybe Danny can help with social media later.”  
“Sure thing, boss,” Danny grins, relaxed, and that seems to calm Stiles further.  
“Okay, so the single thing that connects twelve of the missing people, including Isaac, is Mauvaise Lune.”

“What?!” Chris exclaims.  
“Yeah, that’s why I know I’m being insane.”  
“You mean the media company?” Scott asks, glancing between Chris and Stiles. “Why’s that so shocking? We know they’re all in the industry.”  
“But there’s no other single company that links so many of them. And Mauvaise Lune is small. Independent. It’s a lot to be a complete coincidence.”  
“Okay. That’s something. So why are you being so weird, Stiles?”  
“Kate Argent.” Derek’s voice is a growl, terrifying in its venom; making Lydia jump. She’d made the connection as soon as Stiles had said the name, but wonders if Derek’s visceral reaction explains why Chris and Peter look so sick too.  
“Der? I was expecting Chris to be put out, not you. What’s the matter?”  
“Nothing, baby. Just not a fan.” It’s obvious to Lydia that it isn’t nothing, but Derek has shut down, deflecting the matter by offering to make fresh drinks. 

Stiles looks concerned, eyes following Derek as he moves around the kitchen.  
“Stiles, tell us why you think there’s a connection.”  
Stiles jumps, brought back into the room by Peter’s question, but recovers and launches into his explanation.  
“Okay, so we know Isaac worked on _Superb_ , which was produced by Mauvaise Lune. And eleven of the others have a strong connection too. Several of them had small roles in one or more production. According to the employer records Danny sent, Perry Gruber was representing his first client, who was negotiating for a role on a new show. And Brett’s call back? It was for season six of _Superb_.” Stiles looks at his feet, flushing.

“I think there’s something worth looking into,” Jordan says finally, and Stiles looks to him with a combination of fear and excitement.  
“You really think so?”  
“I do. It’s the most solid connection we have so far.”  
“But I could only find that link for twelve of them.”  
“We never thought all of the potentials were definitely involved in this. And it’s possible more have a link that we haven’t traced yet. That many people with the same connection? It’s something. You all have to film tomorrow; I’ll go to their offices, see if I can speak to Kate Argent.”

“Are you alright with this, Chris?” Lydia asks, noting the tightness around his mouth.  
“I walked away from my sister a long time ago. If she’s involved in any way at all with Isaac disappearing we need to know. We want him back.”  
Lydia nods, aware that the waver in his voice speaks of something far deeper than simply wanting his make up artist back, but not pressing, not in front of everyone.  
“I’ll come with you, Jordan. You might need back up.”  
“Good with a gun, are you?” he smiles.  
“No, but I’m good with power hungry bitches, sorry Chris,” the man just shrugs. It isn’t as though Kate Argent’s reputation as such isn’t well earned and well known.

“You should take Danny, too,” Derek mentions from the kitchen.  
“Okay,” Jordan and Danny both say, and Lydia pretends not to notice when Derek pulls his friend to the side.

* * * * * 

The next day is sunny, as usual, and Lydia is even more finely dressed today, if such a thing is possible, even if her armor this time comes in the form of a sexy bandage dress and sky-high heels. She approves the way Jordan’s jaw drops when she slides into his car, Danny already in the back seat.  
“Uh, that’s a nice outfit.”  
“Thanks. It has a purpose though. Kate Argent is a shark, and if she smells blood in the water she’ll go into a feeding frenzy.” Jordan nods, but has a slightly bemused look on his face, glancing to Danny for a translation.  
“She means she’s going head to head and can’t show any weakness. Kate Argent is renowned as vicious and difficult to please. Derek told me…well, he’s worked with her in the past, and suffice to say, she’s a predator. She’ll see Lydia as a threat, and hopefully she’ll see me as prey, so we can distract her enough that she might reveal something to you.”

Lydia notices that Danny looks a lot less smooth than usual, and realizes it’s intentional. He’s wearing a graphic tee that he might have borrowed from Stiles, broken down Chuck Taylor’s, and a battered leather satchel. He looks cute, and a lot younger than usual – kind of like an enthusiastic film grad. She wonders, again, exactly what Derek’s link is to Kate Argent as it’s becoming increasingly likely it’s about more than just working for her.

Surprisingly, Kate doesn’t keep them waiting long, though the bright smile she wears as she sees Danny in the waiting area fades for a moment when she realizes Jordan and Lydia are with him. When they’re in her office, she takes a seat behind the modern white desk and her voice is positively cold.  
“Well, Danny, I was led to believe you wanted to pitch a new show to me, but I’m guessing that was some kind of subterfuge.”  
“Why would you assume that, Ms Argent?” Jordan asks.  
“It’s not usual for pitch meetings to include a police officer,” she throws back calmly.

Lydia doesn’t panic, but she sees Jordan wince.  
“That’s intentional, Ms Argent. It’s a mystery, and Officer Parrish is my friend and has consulted on a lot of the details.” Lydia schools her face at Danny’s wild statement, which Jordan doesn’t manage. But luckily, the woman only has eyes for Danny, looking him up and down with obvious lust.  
“I know who you are, of course, Danny. I enjoyed your work on _These People_ , and _The Center_ was ruined when you left. But you’re writing independently now?”  
“Yes, I have been for a few years.”  
“Of course. You write on that detective show, don’t you?” 

Lydia bristles at the woman’s disrespect. _Scott’s Landing_ has a broad and loyal fanbase, and regularly features in the trending list. Not to mention it’s directed by her own brother. But there’s something in her voice, and Lydia has a sudden need to push.  
“Yes, Danny writes with Derek Hale. You know Derek, don’t you?”

If she’s expecting some kind of negative reaction, she doesn’t get it. Kate’s face softens out of the usual hard lines and she looks almost misty for a moment.  
“Oh yes, I know Derek.” Lydia does _not_ like the way Kate says that, but she brought it on herself. “How is he anyway? I’m sure we’ll work together again soon.”  
The way she says that makes Lydia feel uncomfortable, and she’s blindsided here by the out of character softness. But she does know that Derek hates the woman, for whatever reason, so she goes with what she has.  
“He’s great. The show’s a huge success, and he’s deliriously happy with his boyfriend.”  
“Yes,” Kate sneers, “ _Mischief_ Stilinski. He isn’t really right for that role, but I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.” Lydia has no idea if she’s referring to being Derek’s boyfriend or the show, but she’s had enough now, and this line of questioning isn’t getting them any closer to finding Isaac.

Twenty minutes later, Kate Argent has swanned off, flicking her long hair out after she’s stared down her nose at Jordan and Lydia and simpered creepily at Danny. They got nothing.  
“We got nothing,” she huffs quietly.  
“She didn’t even react to Perry Gruber’s name,” Jordan adds.  
“She reacted to Isaac though,” Danny suggests.  
“I’m not sure it was a good idea to mention him. If he’s out there…if she has _anything_ to do with it…” Lydia worries.  
“There’s no reason to think she does though. It’s the company that connects them, not her.”  
“But who else connects them? Who is Isaac connected to?”

“Excuse me, are you referring to Isaac Lahey?”  
Lydia spins around at the drawling British accent. She hadn’t even realized a man is sitting in a large armchair in the corner of the lobby. A tall man with sandy hair; objectively unprepossessing, bar broad shoulders, but somehow determined by casting to be the right fit for a powerful superhero. The fans love him, though he has something of a reputation within the industry, for being demanding and difficult.  
“Mr Lion. I understand you were instrumental in Isaac no longer working on _Superb_ , I’m not sure any conversation we have is relevant to you.” Danny does a tiny yelp at Lydia’s blunt words, but she’s pretty sure she’s read the actor right.  
“Is that so, young lady? And who may you be?”

Nailed it.  
“I’m a close friend of Isaac’s. Though you haven’t mentioned why you’re interested?”  
“I- I just want to know he’s okay. We didn’t exactly part on the most illustrious of terms.”  
“Well, Mr Lion, as I understand it, you had him fired.”  
“Please, call me Duke. And that’s not the case. Is that what he told you?”

It isn’t, exactly. Lydia has been aware that Isaac left the show he’d been in, playing the sidekick to Duke Lion’s superhero, suddenly and under bad terms. But to this day, he’s never revealed exactly what made him leave, though she thinks Chris and Peter know more. It’s too late to think that would probably have been sensible information to have before they came here.  
“What he told me is irrelevant. What do you have to say about it?”  
Somewhat unsurprisingly, Duke’s brows raise at that.  
“I wasn’t surprised he left, but I was disappointed. Is he coming back?”  
“Why would he be?”  
“You’re here to see Kate and you’re talking about him. I presume you’re working on his behalf. I do actually know who you are, Lydia Martin.”  
“Oh well done. Many people do.”  
Fortunately Jordan is here to deflect from Lydia’s sharp tongue.  
“You seem regretful about what happened. How about you give us your side of it. Maybe Isaac got the wrong idea.”

Ooh, he’s good, and Lydia smiles with a proprietary pride she isn’t sure if she’s earned the right of yet.  
Duke seems to accept Jordan’s words, smiling sadly.  
“I shouldn’t have done it. He was too sweet. Too sweet to have had that done to him, and too sweet for me to resist.”  
“So why did you do it? A man like you surely _can_ resist if it’s appropriate.” Lydia is impressed at Jordan’s ability to work on the fly – no more knowledgeable about whatever Duke is referring to than either her or Danny, but able to word his questions like he already knows and is just looking for confirmation.  
“I thought he understood. Scratch that. I was _told_ he understood. And then afterwards…the hurt on his face when he realized how shallow the whole thing was. How I wasn’t – couldn’t – leave my wife for him. And, of course, he hated me even more because I’d pursued him so hard. But I swear I wouldn’t have done it like that if I’d have known how green he was.”

Lydia thinks she’s getting it now; thankful it isn’t as bad as she’d started to think, but it’s still pretty bad. The man’s right: Isaac is sweet, and he deserves far better than being some closeted star’s side piece.  
“So he left because he was disgusted at you?”  
“Yes.” Oh well, at least he’s owning what he did. “I was disgusted at myself too. I’d believed her when she’d told me Isaac wanted it just as much as I did, and that he knew the score and wouldn’t demand too much.”  
“Who’s ‘she’?” Jordan asks, but Lydia knows the answer before Duke responds.  
“Kate Argent, of course. She’s a fixer. Always has been. She fixes me up with what I need, and she does the same for her other bankable stars, whatever their particular desires might be.”  
“So, did she do anything for Isaac, or was he always just the payment?” Danny asks, and Lydia can tell he’s holding anger back.  
“He had a fan. The obsessive type. Would always come to our outside shoots. Somehow always knew where we were filming. An older guy – never did anything really, but made Isaac so uncomfortable. The complimentary type, you know? The type who think they’re owed something because they’re ‘nice’; until they aren’t. She managed to get him to stop hanging around. I only know that because when Isaac left she raged about him owing her for that, and she said his character was going to die, to make sure he could never come back. She said he’d never work again.”  
“I don’t think he wanted to be in front of the camera after his experience with you,” Lydia says. She’s calmer now, because she can sense a thread that needs teasing out, and that Stiles will get his hands on. “One last thing, though. Do you have a type, Duke?”  
“A type?”  
“For the young men Kate Argent ‘fixes’ for you. Do you have a type?”  
“Uh, I don’t, really. But Kate does tend to send me the same type anyway. You know, young, and pretty. Haven’t really thought on it outside that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're intrigued as to where it's going 😁


	6. It's Alright, It's Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris is trying to stay strong. They need him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is really short, because I was going to extend it to what happens next, but realized it would actually read better if this bit was on it's own. It doesn't advance the plot, at all; it's more of a character thing, and a chance to do some fluffy stuff in the Peter/Chris/Jackson grouping.

“Will you tell me what it is, sweetheart?”  
Chris flicks his eyes to Peter, who came in only five minutes earlier, mixed them both a drink, and sat opposite him. Chris had accepted the drink with a murmur, but gone back to his brooding. He knows he won’t get away with keeping that up, not with Peter.  
But he can’t resist a little snark. “Whatever could it be?”  
“I know you’re worried about Isaac. We all are.”  
He can’t respond to that the way he wants to. “Where’s Jackson?”  
“Where else? He’s at Derek’s, trying to help Stiles with his mystery board, undoubtedly working himself up and getting in the way.”

Chris purses his lip, but Peter isn’t being cruel. He has some idea of what state Jackson will be in when he comes home – probably sent back by a frustrated Derek. Their boy isn’t good at reining in his emotions, and Derek isn’t the best at dealing with overblown drama; besides, he has enough to contend with with Stiles’ own brand of it.

“We’ll get him back, you know?”  
“No one’s saying it, Peter, not out loud, but you know you could be wrong. If he really has been taken. I feel useless.”  
“You aren’t useless. Never have been. But Kate…?”  
“I’m not sure if that idea makes it better or worse. She’s always had that edge of ruthlessness. How awful is it that I was so unsurprised by what Lydia came back with? Her procuring actual _people_ for her stars; it doesn’t even taste unusual, not when it’s about her. And very little about any extra steps she might take does either.”  
“Have you considered speaking to her?”  
“Of course I have. It’s the first thing I thought of when her name came up, and when Lydia gave us the information, I thought of it again. But that’s all it can be. We both know what she and my father think of me. Me speaking to her: it will just make things worse. I can’t be so selfish, not when it’s Isaac on the line.”

Peter takes a sip of his drink, rolling the glass in his long fingers.  
“I hired a detective.”  
“You did?” But Chris is kicking himself. Why hadn’t he thought of that? He should have done it the moment Parrish had said they needed something more before it would be made official.  
“At least I’ve been able to give her Kate’s name. She’s watching her, to see if she goes somewhere unusual, does anything.”  
“You think she will?”  
“Truthfully? No. I’m concerned Lydia might have unintentionally put her on her guard.”  
“But if she does have Isaac…”  
“I know, sweetheart. I know.”

Peter puts his glass down and sits beside Chris, resting his head and reaching his hand out in a silent demand. Chris takes it, curling his thick fingers through Peter’s elegant ones, kissing the top of his head with a sigh.  
“When did you realize you wanted something with Isaac too?” Peter asks quietly, running his thumb along Chris’. They’ve not spoken of this explicitly, not beyond brief conversations about Isaac’s prettiness, or how he seemed to show a great many submissive traits, or how enamored Jackson was clearly becoming. 

Even though Chris spoke with the dream that they might be able to bring Isaac in, that’s all it had been: a dream. Peter had been more confident, he always was. Even when Jackson had clearly been reaching the same idea independently, Chris hadn’t truly let himself think it might happen. It had felt too greedy, that they might have both of them as their boys.   
“There was no particular occasion. But he was too innocent when I first met him; when you brought him on board after getting him away from Kate and that awful show. And even though we didn’t know exactly what had happened with him there, it was clear he was damaged from it. I had an urge to take care of him then, but it wasn’t sexual.”  
“But he grew, didn’t he?” Peter prompts, pressing harder into Chris’ side.  
“He did. He matured right in front of us.” Chris shivers at just what thoughts that maturation had put into his mind when he’d seen it developing; positive thoughts as Jackson did the same, with his and Peter’s help, and ideas of how much they could help and guide Isaac too, given the chance.

Peter slides easily to his knees, resting his hands on Chris’ thighs, looking up at him with those piercing eyes.  
“You think you’re ready to have two demanding boys, Chris? They’ll bicker and fight, you know? And then they’ll make up in all sorts of glorious ways.”  
“Peter,” Chris’ voice shakes, “don’t.”  
“You don’t-,”  
“We don’t know what’s happening to him, darling. If it is _her_ , we know what she’s capable of. What she did to Derek.”

Peter becomes somber, nodding and pulling himself back onto the couch. They do both know the vile things she did to Derek when he’d worked for her on one of her earlier shows. Twisting his mind when he was only fifteen, making him think that what she demanded of him was normal. Even when Peter had saved him, Derek hadn’t thought so, not at first. And then counseling had helped him to understand, and that had messed him up even more, when he found out just how bad it had been. The fact that he’d been underage had been the least of it, though Chris knows Peter had naively hoped that his youth would ensure resilience. But Derek hadn’t bounced back, not fully, not until he had Stiles. He doesn’t want to see someone else go through that, especially not someone he’s pretty sure he’s falling in love with.

They haven’t moved an hour later, when a key goes in the door. Chris had just been thinking he could talk himself into giving Peter some pleasure. The man deserves it, with all the quiet support he offers and gets very little appreciation for. Chris knows he takes Peter for granted sometimes. Never intentionally, but the man is so buoyant Chris knows he allows himself to assume Peter is alright, especially when he has the heavy demands of an inconsistent Jackson to deal with. And that’s exactly what’s coming through the door now, his clothes disappearing in a flurry as he dives over to his two Doms, burrowing himself between them.

Jackson snuffles against Peter’s chest, whimpering, and Chris recognizes what he needs, going to grab some soft flannel pajamas from the wardrobe, helping Jackson into them before pulling him onto his lap so he can wrap him in a hug.  
“Hey Jackie, wanna tell papa what’s up?” he says in a soft voice. There’s only one time Chris becomes papa, and Jackson becomes Jackie, and he puts the thoughts he’d been building on the back burner.   
“Made Derek mad, papa,” Jackson admits.  
“Were you being a silly boy?”  
“Yeah. Had a fight with Stiles.” Jackson’s snuffles get looser as tears fall.  
“Hey, baby boy, it’s okay. You’re both upset. He will forgive you.”  
“Promise, papa?”  
“Promise, Jackie.”

When Jackson has eaten sandwiches cut into dinosaur shapes by Peter, played some Lego, and fallen asleep watching Voltron, Chris carries him to the spare bedroom that they’ve decorated with a space theme, and Peter is waiting for him when he comes out. Jackson will almost certainly wake up in the night, having satisfied his always short-lived Little needs, and join them in the master suite, but in the meantime, they’re on their own. 

“Can I cuddle you to sleep?” Peter asks, pulling Chris close.  
“Hoping you might be up for a bit more than that.”  
“Always,” Peter growls and Chris laughs as he’s pulled into the bedroom and thrown onto the bed.

He just lays back, allowing Peter to strip him, only assisting with necessary movements of his hips and back, until he’s naked and Peter carefully binds his wrists to the headboard and stands above him with a dark look in his eyes that can only be described as hungry.  
“Oh, what to do with that perfect body,” Peter pretends to muse, tapping his front teeth.  
“Get on with it you big drama queen,” Chris growls. This is about as much as he’ll accept, bondage-wise, but Peter enjoys flexing every now and then, and he knows Peter appreciates the challenge of being allowed to take Chris to pieces every now and then. It is tougher than taking eager, exuberant Jackson apart, after all.

Peter winks, approaching slowly and sliding his hands up Chris legs, massaging his muscular thighs. Chris does his best to stay still, but it’s hard, the desire to remove the ties (which he could do with ease, and Peter knows too), and flip Peter over to ravage him, high. He does it for him though, managing to relax slightly, until Peter’s long fingers brush lightly but purposefully over his cock, making Chris hiss.  
“No teasing, darling, please,” he gets out, breathing heavily.  
“You’re tender for me, tonight,” Peter says with a little wonder in his voice.  
“Maybe, Peter,” Chris concedes with a rare, rosy blush. “Maybe I just need you to show me.”

Chris knows Peter doesn’t have to ask what Chris wants him to show him. The care, the consideration, the adoration: all things that Chris doesn’t _need_ , not normally. They live in a state of constant awareness of what they are to each other; no one has to be explicit about it, it simply is. They usually focus that kind of energy on Jackson, who undoubtedly _does_ need it. But Peter smiles warmly, clearly happy to be allowed to extend that to Chris, just for now.

With that permission, Peter is clearly a man on a mission, taking Chris into his mouth, easily sliding the full length into his throat, building up a rhythm that would send anyone with less control far over the edge. But Peter is aware of how much harder he can push Chris, and Chris just allows himself to enjoy it, resting his head back as Peter rolls his balls in one hand and teases a tender nipple with his other. He does almost send Chris over when he tickles his fingers down his body, pausing at the tub of lube he’s left next to them on the bed, and reaches between his own legs, having shuffled his own pants down, and the filled-mouth-gasp tells Chris he’s preparing himself. Chris wishes he could see, but he’ll settle for benefiting from the swallows and moans around his cock instead. 

Peter doesn’t rush, and Chris thinks he might have to let go before too long; Peter having given him no room for almost thirty minutes, but the desperate whimper Chris allows out seems to sate his dominant desire, and he leaves Chris’ aching cock free for only as long as it takes him to straddle Chris’ hips and lower himself down in one drawn out but steady move.  
“Christ, Peter, how are you this tight?” Chris’s voice is gravelly with need as Peter chuckles at him.  
“It’s been a while sweetheart. You’re normally buried inside our gorgeous boy.”

It’s true it must be a couple months since he’s been inside Peter, and he vows to not leave it so long in future, as Peter rolls on him, as deep as they can be, leaning forward to tickle over the sensitive skin just below the bonds at Chris’ wrists, shifting to nip at his collarbone.  
“Take me, Chris,” Peter demands, and Chris does, thrusting his hips up, using his thighs as leverage against the bed while Peter spreads his legs, rubbing rhythmically against Chris’ abs until Chris can’t take anymore, already pushed right to the edge by Peter’s perfect mouth.  
“Come for me, Peter, please,” he begs the only man he will ever beg for anything from, and Peter bites down on his shoulder as he shudders, coating them both with his release, and Chris allows himself to follow with more of a whimper than a growl, falling back, exhausted.

Peter has cleaned them up and is nuzzled into little spoon before either of them speak again.  
“Thank you, darling.”   
“My pleasure. I love you.” Peter’s voice is thick with sleep and Chris pulls him even closer.   
“Love you, too.” 

But Chris is still awake when Jackson crawls into bed several hours later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter though...that will have some *stuff* going on


	7. Break It Down Again

Stiles has never felt so strung out, and this is from someone who has irregularly controlled ADHD and a coffee addiction. But Isaac has been missing for days now, and Stiles _knows_ he was taken. That he needs to be saved.

But how can Stiles save him? He’s doing his best, they all are, but Parrish called this morning, told Stiles his boss is appropriately apologetic but can’t open anything more than a basic missing persons case without more real evidence, no matter how much he trusts Parrish’s gut on this. That’s even after he was shown the video, but if anything it backfired on them, because, apparently, the Captain pointed out that Isaac literally went away on his own two feet, under his own steam, and there was no one else in the shot to suggest he was coerced. 

Peter insisted they continue to work. They have deadlines to meet for production and he has investors breathing down his neck. Stiles is trying to understand, but the idea of chasing money instead of their lost friend is sitting poorly with him.

“We’ll find him, Stiles,” Allison reassures him, stroking his arm in an unexpected display of warmth.  
“We will,” Lydia echoes, using the electronic pencil on her tablet to flick through Lord-knows-what.  
“At least Chris has arranged it so all the filming is on set,” Allison continues, biting her lip. “Something is so wrong about all of this, I’m glad we’re not out on location.”  
“You feel it too?” Stiles questions; he’d been thinking it was just him.  
“There’s…something. I can’t put my finger on it. You know a pile of really important paperwork vanished from Peter’s desk? And Cora found bits of it in the shredder. Luckily she had copies online but-,”

Stiles ignores the last bit. But this is more worrying than his simple ‘feeling’. Shredded paperwork. That’s a _thing_. Peter doesn’t keep his office locked, but there’s no way Kate could get onto the set without being seen. And why would she be shredding paper? It isn’t anything to do with Isaac. Unless it was his employment details, but Allison would have mentioned that small detail.

Stiles heads back out as he’s needed for the next scene, with Scott and Derek.  
_“We have to investigate more, Scott,” he emotes, hard.  
“I know, Tyler, but the Captain says there isn’t a case.”  
“Well, we make a case,” Derek growls, clenching his fingers against the back of a chair._  
This is all feeling a little to close to the bone for Stiles, and he’s struggling to keep his mind in the game.

He only distantly hears the groaning of metal turning into a screech. Scott gazes upwards, his face open and vague. It’s Derek who reacts, slamming into Stiles’ side, thrusting him, unfortunately, right into the dining table. Stiles yelps, wobbly from the impact, his hip already throbbing, ready to yell at Derek’s carelessness, needing an outlet, when the screech turns into a scream, and a heavy metal light drops, smashing into the floor right where Stiles had been standing only the moment before.

Stiles stares at the destroyed light before moving his eyes to Derek, who’s gone pale to the point of green.  
“Fuck,” Stiles whispers, before Derek’s on him, pulling him close, pressing his nose into Stiles’ throat, trying to hide the stifled sobs.

Chris hurries over, bending over the light.  
“Boyd!” he calls, and enters into a muttered conversation with the security man while Stiles just clutches Derek’s shoulders, keeping him close.

Kira comes over, laughing with Theo Raeken. Stiles thinks Kira might have a bit of a crush on the guy, who’s the consummate ‘bad boy’: arrogant and handsome, and just brimming with confidence. Stiles can’t really blame her. Stiles might have had his own crush, if he didn’t have the perfection of Derek Hale instead. He thinks that’s why he can see that at least some of his confidence is a forced patina, especially when Stiles’ friends have all been very eager to sell what a great job Stiles does in the job that was originally meant to be Theo’s. That’s probably why Theo looks at Stiles with suspicion, and hasn’t made any effort to befriend him, though he’s making a big effort with the others. Rather over-egging it, Stiles can’t help but think.

Scott tells them about the light falling, and how it would definitely have crushed Stiles’ skull if Derek hadn’t saved him, with a bit too much relish. They’re appropriately shocked, but almost as gapingly ineffectual as Scott, so Stiles rolls his eyes and waits for Chris and Boyd’s verdict.  
“Might just be wear and tear,” Chris finally stands and says. “But could have been hacksawed.”  
“That’s a pretty broad spectrum, Chris.” Stiles allows a smidge of sarcasm to bleed into his voice, even though he knows it’s not the director’s fault. Chris doesn’t react to it though.  
“Right, we’re wrapping for the day. I know they say things happen in threes, but I’m not risking something else.”  
“What else happened, Chris?” Derek asks.  
“Peter found some important papers shredded, and yesterday’s rushes have somehow been erased, so we’re going to have to factor in time to reshoot.”  
“Shit,” Stiles breathes.

He’s still a bit shaky, and Derek settles him onto one of the couches in the break out area, doing a way-too-obvious sweep over his head for anything that might fall. He goes to the coffee machine, while Scott runs off excitedly to tell Allison he has the afternoon free.

Derek carries over a latte for Stiles, with a pastry on a paper plate.  
“You think there’s something to this? You think it’s Kate?” Stiles asks.  
Derek shudders. “I don’t see how it can be. Chris would have her escorted away if she even came to the front gate.”  
“Baby, it can’t just be a coincidence. Just after Isaac going missing. Just after us investigating _her_ …” Stiles accepts the coffee and pastry from Derek, lifting the aromatic liquid and taking an appreciative sniff. “We’ve had no problems, and then three serious things in a row? You know Chris is underplaying the recordings getting wiped. That’ll be thousands of dollars to redo.”

Lydia clips over, clutching her tablet and a clipboard, dropping elegantly next to Stiles and looking up at Derek with fluttering lashes.  
“I’d love an espresso,” she tells him, and Derek huffs before going back to the machine.

She looks at Stiles for a long moment, until he’s looking around himself nervously.  
“What?”  
“I don’t know if it’s anything; I don’t want to send us off on a wild chase that means nothing, but I kind of think we’re already there.”  
“Please, Lydia, I just almost got crushed by a light. Don’t mess with me right now.”  
“I know, Scott came running into the makeup room like a Valley Girl. It took him several minutes to even let us know you were okay.” Lydia rolls her eyes, but Stiles knows it’s mainly fond. Scott might be a total flake, but he’s got a way of getting under people’s skin and making them adore him regardless. Maybe because there’s never anything malicious behind his careless treatment of others. And by ‘others’, Stiles means him. But he has neither the time nor the inclination to factor Scott’s selfishness into his life right now.

“Well, I’m alive. Tell me your idea.”  
“Danny told me he was focusing his energy on trying to get into the state’s systems to check out the cameras on the streets around Isaac’s apartment. He’s sure we’ll get a vehicle registration out of it, and he already has an in for the DMV. But we both know what that’s going to tell us about who owns a car.”  
“Sure, we think we do. But we might be wrong.”  
“Okay, and if we are we will be in the same place when he comes up with that information. In the meantime, I’ve been checking out the social media of all of our ‘potentials’. I’ve found two others with possible links to Mauvaise Lune.”  
“Possible?” Derek asks, passing Lydia her espresso, which she puts on the coffee table to show Stiles her tablet, open on Instagram.

Stiles takes a tiny sip of his bitter coffee, stopping to shake the sugar packet Derek passes him into it, before taking the device from Lydia.  
“What am I looking at?”  
“That’s Graham Booker’s account. He went missing eight months ago.” She points at his name on the chronological list of disappearances on her clipboard. “Remind you of anyone?” The young man does bear a more than passing resemblance to Isaac, though his curly hair is blonder, and topless shots on his page show he has a more muscular build. Lydia leans over, and Stiles has a momentary moment of dizziness at her proximity. Maybe it’s her fruity but seductive perfume, even if it certainly isn’t Stiles’ current preference. 

She flicks through her tabs, stopping on another account. This boy is pale-skinned, with a sharp jawline, killer cheekbones, and big hazel eyes. He doesn’t look so much like Isaac, but the overall ‘sweet and innocent’ vibe is similar.  
“He looks like you, Stiles,” Derek says with a growl and a glance at Lydia. Stiles shrugs, not really seeing it.  
“Right?” she says. “That’s Paul Paulson – not his real name, but I haven’t got that far yet. He was on the missing person list with the pseudonym, because his roommate reported him missing and didn’t know any others. He’s a rent boy, and went missing five months ago. Booker was an escort.”  
“That’s why you think they have a possible link? You think they were hired by Mauvaise Lune?”  
“I think it’s likely. Booker’s company wouldn’t tell me anything, but Paulson’s roommate, who I suspect was also his pimp, told me he’d got a ‘corporate gig’ with a famous director. I doubt that was quite true, but I’m going to show their pictures to Duke Lion, see if they were sent to him. But adding them in made me notice something-,”  
“The timeline. There’s still some gaps, but with these dates of disappearance added in, we’re looking at a new missing person approximately every three to four weeks,” Stiles interrupts, too shocked to wait.  
“Exactly. So-,”  
“So, unless someone is building themselves a massive harem, Isaac probably only has two and a half weeks before-,”  
“Exactly,” Lydia says, with force this time, obviously done at being interrupted.  
“But what do we do?”  
“You do nothing. I’m going to make a nuisance of myself. I have a few contacts and a lot of pictures. I’m going to find enough of these missing boys who have a direct, provable connection to Mauvaise Lune to make the police give us a warrant. When we have that, we can trace properties, movements, the whole kaboodle.”  
“You’re not doing it on your own, Lydia. Kate Agent is dangerous even if she doesn’t have anything to do with this,” Derek insists.  
“Allison’s already said she’ll come with me. I’ll be careful, and I’ll keep you informed every step of the way.”

Lydia reaches for her espresso as Stiles takes a gulp of his lukewarm coffee. It still doesn’t taste quite right, even with the sugar; still too bitter. A wave of dizziness passes over him, and he feels his heart rate increase erratically. Nausea overtakes him, and he bends, vomiting over the side of the couch, feeling the sweat prickle at his brow. He can vaguely hear Derek’s panicked voice, calling for him, and then screaming for Chris, and then everything is black.

* * * * * 

Stiles’ eyelids feel sticky, reluctant to open, and his head is pounding. He can feel a hand on his, stroking the back, then feels lips against it, and he forces his eyes open.  
“Derek?” His throat hurts, and he thinks he might vomit again, but nothing but saliva pools in his mouth.  
“Oh, thank God. Stiles, I- how are you feeling?”  
“Like shit,” he husks out, dropping his head back.

He’s unaware of Derek doing anything, but a nurse bustles in, so he must have pushed for one.  
“Hello Mr Stilinski, how are you feeling?” She’s way too chirpy for Stiles’ current mood, but he hasn’t even got the energy to snark and just closes his eyes.  
“Can he have painkillers?” Derek asks.  
“We’d rather not. In cases of poisoning, it’s advisable not to add any more foreign compounds until we’re sure the poison is clear. We had to give you an emetic already, Mr Stilinski, and we applied a dose of pilocarpine.”  
“It was atropine?” Stiles manages.  
“Yes. Rather a large dose in the coffee you drank, which your friend was clever enough to bring in so we could test it. It’s fortunate you drank very little. We may have been too late if you’d have finished it.”  
Stiles shudders at the thought, thankful he can’t see Derek’s face right now.

“Wait!” He tries to sit up, and fails dismally; falling back against the pillow with a groan. “Lydia?” he manages to whisper.  
“She’s fine, baby. Your flailing about knocked the cup out of her hands. Once the doctor confirmed you would be okay, and would eventually wake naturally, she went straight off to start investigating.”

Stiles allows himself to relax the smallest amount. It adds a new element though. Poisoning, with potentially fatal doses, is a far cry from deleting film and shredding paper. He needs to get home and work this new information into his board.

* * * * * 

He doesn’t, after all. 

By the time the doctor has accepted Stiles can complete his recovery at home, and Derek has taken Stiles back to his, of course, Stiles is beyond exhausted, and falls into an unsteady dream-, or nightmare-, filled sleep, which he’s vaguely aware Derek calms him through, laying by his side.

The next morning, Stiles still doesn’t feel right; as if insects are crawling under his skin. He googles it, wondering if it’s a symptom of the poisoning, but the results are inconclusive: it’s probably more to do with everything that’s going on – or isn’t going on, not really. He’s letting Isaac down, wherever he is. He’s heard the others quietly discussing theories, over the last couple days. The fact that Isaac didn’t take his phone, so couldn’t easily get in touch even if he’s fine, is making a few of them feel better, but he doesn’t buy that. Even if he doesn’t have people’s numbers, if he’s in a safe space there’s nothing stopping him from logging into social media on someone else’s device and checking in. Even if he’s on his own, there’s public libraries, and he’d be able to find the number for Peter’s company easily enough. So, no, Stiles won’t accept that excuse.

He’s not managed to do anything, curled up on the couch with a blanket that Derek laid over his shoulders. Derek brought a cup of tea, assuming, correctly, that Stiles wouldn’t be able to face coffee, but even that Stiles has only taken a sip of, the burning liquid scratching at his sore throat. He’s just staring, in the vague direction of his boards, but not seeing them, ineffectual thoughts running through his head; nothing sticking, nothing standing out.

He doesn’t hear the door, but suddenly Chris and Peter and Jackson are there. Chris and Peter look sympathetic but Jackson bounds over immediately, practically laying himself on Stiles’ side and hugging him tight. His entire night had been the same, from Derek, and someone could argue that was the one he should need, but, somehow, this is even more, and he finds himself struggling to hold back the tears that rise.  
“I’m sorry,” he snuffles, turning to bury his face in Jackson’s hard chest. “I’m sorry I haven’t found him.”  
“Stop it,” Jackson growls, but Stiles can hear the wateriness of his voice, “this isn’t on you, at all. We’re going to get him back, and it’s only ever on the person who took him.”

Eventually, Peter approaches and carefully extricates Jackson, pulling him to the other side of the couch so Derek can sit next to Stiles and wrap an arm over his shoulders.  
“Any news?” Derek asks Chris, who’s seated in the armchair with a grim look on his face.  
“Jordan finally has a reason to investigate, because poisoning the coffee is a big deal. They had crime scene there yesterday, taking fingerprints. They didn’t find any that didn’t belong.”  
Stiles feels his brain waking up. “So whoever did it is someone we’d expect to be there. Or wears gloves. But that would be noticeable.”  
“Your first option _is_ more likely,” Peter smirks.  
Stiles ignores him. “But do we really think we’re dealing with a coincidental psycho, or that this has something to do with Isaac? I mean, it wasn’t guaranteed that I’d drink the coffee, but plenty of people on set drink theirs a lot faster than me – a death on set would certainly have set our investigations back.” Chris starts, but Stiles is on a roll. “So it’s set up to distract us. All the things that happened. And they all happened in one day, so it’s a new thing. Who do we trust?”  
“Everyone?” Jackson suggests.  
“Well, I explicitly trust everyone who’s been with us since the beginning, but we have a few new people since the movie began,” Derek reminds them, his eyebrows furrowed in worry.  
“I can check who was in yesterday. Then we can search a link with Kate Argent,” Peter says.  
“You definitely think…?” Chris begins, and Peter turns apologetically, which Chris waves away sharply.  
“Not definitely. But I do think the connection with Mauvaise Lune is the only strong lead we have. We have to work with what we’ve got.”

The doorbell goes while they’re discussing the next step, and Chris waves Derek down and goes to answer, bringing Parrish into the room.  
“I have bad news,” he starts without preamble. “The Captain allowed me to start basic investigations of Isaac as a regular missing person case, though he won’t allow me to link the poisoning to it, so I went to his apartment, which is the usual process, as we have to review the person’s home, as well as where they were seen last.”  
Stiles wants to scream at the explanation, his body tense for how bad this news might be, but he clutches Derek’s hand instead.  
“On the kitchen counter, I found a note.”  
“What? No you didn’t,” Stiles bursts out.  
“I did. It can’t go for handwriting analysis, because that would never be sanctioned on a missing person, but I checked it against a notebook I found in his bedside table, and it looks like Isaac’s writing. It says he’s gone to stay with an old friend, says he needs to get his head together. That sound like it could be true?”  
“You can’t believe it?” Stiles asks, but he glances toward Jackson who’s looking sad and guilty all at once.  
“I’m not saying I believe it. I know you already described the room, so I know there was no note when you went in there. It would suggest that Isaac went away without telling anyone, and came back several days later to leave a note that he’d have no idea that anyone would ever see. I watched the cameras while I was there and there was no Isaac. It was mainly residents who used their keys, but the super noted one person who didn’t match anyone living there – and that person bears a more than passing resemblance to the person we saw ringing the buzzer the night Isaac disappeared. Still couldn’t see them properly, but I am almost certain it’s the same person. But there’s no cameras inside the building, so it doesn’t go anywhere, yet.”

Stiles is pretty sure Parrish is nudging him about Danny finding something on the street cameras, but not too hard, because then he’d have to acknowledge how illegal such an endeavor would be. Stiles knows Danny is trying, but with everything going on, he hasn’t been in touch. 

“I’ll-,” Stiles begins, but Parrish’s cellphone cuts him off.  
“Sorry…Captain.” Parrish turns away, speaking lowly as he wanders over to the kitchen.

Stiles is about to ask Peter if his private detective has found anything on Kate Argent when Parrish returns, his face gray. No one says anything, each waiting for the penny to drop, each surely feeling a sense of dread clutching at their insides, like Stiles is.  
“What?” Stiles bursts out, unable to take anymore.  
“Uh…that was my Captain.” Stiles stops himself from swearing, though it’s close. It’s obviously just the way Parrish steels himself, speaking but delaying the ax falling. “They’ve found…it’s a body. They found a body. Shot with an arrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dum dum dum...  
> Mildly evil cackling at the cliffhanger.  
> More to come soon
> 
> Edit: because I is dumb and apparently changed the name of Kate Argent's production company for no reason whatsoever. I can't leave it because it hurts my soul, so apologies if you get an update (but will be dropping another chapter - gimme 5)


	8. The Room is on Fire as She’s Fixing her Hair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Complicated trigger warning. There is reference to historic sexual abuse, both of the statutory rape variety and the common-or-garden sexual abuse and abuse of power variety. Nothing is explicitly described, but you are meant to infer some very nasty things so, please, be aware of the warning, most especially when Stiles is talking to Kate.

Stiles isn’t sure what he was expecting, but it isn’t this. They recognize the body, which has been driven two hours from where it was found to the main city coroner’s office, immediately. It’s Perry Gruber, the assistant to Ari Zimmer, who stands between Parrish and Lydia now, tears welling as Stiles shifts awkwardly in the background.  
“I knew he was missing. Didn’t think it could be true. Figured he’d gone off to see an old friend or something, get his head together.”

Zimmer’s words are so reminiscent of Derek’s thoughts when Stiles had first suggested there was something strange going on that he blanches. Wishing it could be true, but knowing that this body, this boy who looks so much younger than his twenty-four years, who looks like he’s just sleeping, a blanket pulled up to his neck, even if he’ll never wake up again, is proof against any such optimistic thoughts. 

To Lydia’s obvious surprise, Zimmer turns to her, almost demanding a hug as he sobs into her uneasy shoulder, making strange noises and whispering how it’s all his fault that Perry ‘ran away’ because he’d made an awkward pass at him. Stiles doubts very much that Perry had ever had the chance to actually run away, so he’s pleased when Lydia soothes the man with self-conscious pats to his back, assuring him this is something outside any conversation the two of them had.

“Where did they find him?” Stiles whispers to Parrish as they move into the cold, institutional hallway.  
“About a hundred miles from here. At the edge of the national forest. We were lucky.” Parrish grimaces in response to Stiles’ reaction. “I know. Relatively speaking. But he was found by a group of hikers who’d wondered off the trail, like idiots. But if they hadn’t, we certainly wouldn’t have found him so…recognizable.”  
“You said he was shot with an arrow?”  
“Coroner says a crossbow bolt. But it went through and they weren’t able to find it, which is understandable, given the terrain. Plus the coroner thinks he travelled a short distance after being shot, based on blood loss.”  
“So you think he was running away from someone and they couldn’t get to him?”  
“Either that, or it happened shortly before the hikers found him.”

The thought of that makes Stiles feel sick. Perry getting away, maybe even hearing the hikers close by, thinking he’d made it, even, and then feeling the pain of a bolt through his body and his life draining away in that inhospitable environment. Stiles gulps, determined to hold it together. 

“There is some good news though. The Captain will open this as a murder case, working with the local PD, so we’re one step closer to getting all of the linked cases taken seriously. And, we have a possible location now.”  
“You mean a location for Isaac?”  
“Yes.”  
“So, are we looking?”  
“Satellite is patchy at best over there. We could use a helicopter search.”  
“I’ll speak to Peter.”

* * * * * 

“Of course, Stiles, I’ll organize it.” Peter holds Jackson’s shaking hand.  
Chris looks unnervingly uncertain, and Allison turns to him.  
“Dad, I know you’re thinking what I’m thinking. You told me she was a champion.”  
Chris looks at the people gathered in Derek’s apartment. Stiles standing by his boards, with Derek close by. His daughter leaning into Scott on one of the couches, with Parrish and Lydia on her other side. Jackson and Peter next to him, on the other couch. Danny’s missing, but he’s expected shortly. Boyd and Erica and Kira haven’t been as involved as the others, though they’re all concerned about Isaac, but they offered to go and visit some of the other families today, sick of feeling useless while nothing seemed to be advancing. Stiles hasn’t even got round to telling them about Perry’s body yet.

“Kate is a champion markswoman, with a crossbow. She loves to hunt. We grew up hunting. My father was a bit of a prepper, and he was obsessed with making us as skilled in weapons as possible.”  
Allison screws up her face as if she’s just realized something. “Is that why you had me learn crossbow too? Because she did it?”  
“Strangely enough, that was all your mother. You used to use a slingshot and stones to knock cans over, and you know how your mom wanted every skill developed to its full potential. She never even knew Kate. I left home months before I met her. I suspect the natural skill might come through my side though.” Allison’s brow clears and Chris continues. “It was one of the reasons I found it so easy to walk away from her, even though she was my little sister. Her bloodlust. It was always about more than just the hunt with her.”

“The hunt?” Stiles asks. “You think she hunted Perry, on purpose? That it wasn’t just about him running away from wherever she was keeping him?”  
“Things aren’t adding up,” Lydia says. “Perry Gruber has been missing for months. And so have others. You think she’s collecting them and then when she gets a spare minute she’s making them run through the forest so she can hunt them? I know she’s psycho, but really?”  
“We need a better understanding of the timeline,” Derek announces and turns one of Stiles’ boards, the only side that isn’t yet full of his spiky writing.

With everyone’s help, Stiles writes out the names of every person they think is connected.

Name | Missing  
---|---  
Ty Henry | October  
Ronnie Michaels | November  
Pierre White | December  
Graham Booker | December  
Brett Talbot | January  
Karl WIlliams | January  
Paul Paulson | February  
Bodie Simmons | February  
Jonathan Kreb | March  
Luke Lewis | April  
Perry Gruber | May (Body found July)  
Shannon Drewson | May  
James Phelps | June  
Isaac Lahey | July  
  
“Hang on, Sebastien Valet isn’t on the list?” Derek asks, brows drawn.  
“He’s too old, and doesn’t have the right look. I think he just wandered off a trail and had an accident,” Stiles admits sheepishly, thankful when Derek does nothing more than roll his eyes, considering it was Valet that kicked this whole thing off.

Stiles is saved from the inquisitive looks of the others by the doorbell, and soon Danny is coming in and connecting his laptop to the TV.  
“Uh, Detective Parrish,” he says shamefacedly, “perhaps now would be a good time for you to have a short walk around the block and we can give you some key points when you get back.”  
“Sounds like a great idea. I need to check in with the Captain anyway.”

As soon as Parrish has made himself scarce, Danny logs into a local government website with an employee code. Stiles doesn’t question how he got it, not least because he has no idea how Danny does any of what he does. He calls himself a Gray Hat, which Stiles only understands to mean that he will only ever use his skills for good, but he doesn’t have major morals about what he has to break through to do it. He has little doubt that whatever Danny did to get this code was highly illegal, but as he navigates through screens until he’s on the city’s closed circuit camera system, Stiles cares even less.

“Okay, pay attention,” is all Danny says as he types a date in the search bar and clicks ‘play’. The screen is playing in monochrome, grainy on Derek’s massive TV, as they watch a few people walk past the camera, which shows the wide sidewalk and parked cars at the curb. Stiles wonders why Danny started it so early: the date is right, but it has to be at least thirty minutes before they’ll see Isaac. But then he sees it; a pale flash on the right of the screen, and he realizes one of the parked cars has someone in it. Not the first one, and not clear, but definitely a face. Danny grins and nods when Stiles gets it with a gasp.  
“Can’t you, you know, zoom in?”  
“This isn’t some high budget detective show, Stiles. You can’t do that kind of thing in real life. Hold on though.”

Everyone watches avidly as Danny zooms forward, the blurry face only bobbing up and down as it fast-forwards, obviously not moving much in the whole thirty minutes, seemingly staring fairly intently at the sidewalk.

Finally, Danny presses play again, and a minute later Isaac comes into shot, his hands in Stiles’ jacket, which looks gray on screen, his lower face pressed into his scarf. They watch his back as he veers to a building on the left, presumably his apartment block, though it’s little more than a cream blodge at the edge of the shot. They can’t see Isaac enter, and wait with bated breath for what’s coming.

It happens a moment later. She, for it is definitely a she, even if the recording isn’t clear enough to hone in on her facial features and she keeps the hood up, is clearly not as worried – or doesn’t know – about the street cameras as she had been about the apartment camera. Her hands shove something – presumably a car key – into the pocket, pulling it taut against the clear line of a breast before it goes loose again when she pulls the drawcord around the hood tighter. She follows Isaac’s trajectory, and once again they can’t see her at the door, though it’s only a few moments before she’s walking back towards the car and getting into the passenger seat, even though there’s no one else visible in the car. She seems to be staring to the side – toward the intermittent traffic on the street – and when they see Isaac appear he doesn’t notice her at first.

He looks up and down the street, panic clear on his gray face, even spinning in a circle like he’s searching for something. He stops, seeing the car, his face clearing for a moment – she must have called out to him, although she’s still looking out to the street. When he’s right by the open window she finally turns and his reaction is instant. He’s shouting angrily, though the way he leans his shoulders back belies his fear, and when she grabs his wrist he seems to go almost limp. Stiles can’t tell for sure but he’d put money that Isaac is trembling in her hold. Even though he knows how pointless it is, Stiles finds himself having to hold back from screaming at the TV for Isaac to run, desperately hoping for a passer-by to suddenly appear in the frame.

Instead, she reaches her other hand up to Isaac’s neck, and then he really goes limp. In a practiced move, she opens to car door quick enough that he doesn’t even have time to slump to the ground, opening the rear door and throwing his narrow frame onto the seat with ease, before moving to the driver’s side and screeching off into the traffic-free street. Danny stops the shot perfectly as the car is as close to the camera as it gets, pausing so they can all see Kate Argent’s determined features framed in the windshield. 

* * * * * 

They have a plan, of sorts, and Stiles hates it. When they’d given Parrish the edited version of what happened, he’d sighed, heavy.  
“You know I can’t tell my Captain any of this, right?”  
“Can’t you say it’s an unnamed source?” Allison asked.  
“It isn’t as simple as that. It would work for the media, but my Captain isn’t going to bow to it. And if I just admitted it came from an illegal hack he’d implode. As is, none of this is admissible, and he can’t get court orders without a clear chain of custody on the evidence.”  
“That’s what she said,” Lydia hissed.  
“What?” Derek asked.  
“When we went to see her, she said we wouldn’t get admissible evidence, like she knew she hadn’t done anything that could be legally brought back to her.”  
“Not true,” Parrish insisted. “This will be amazing evidence, when we go through the proper channels to get it. In fact, when we get Isaac back and have his first-hand witness account, that and this video will be what convicts her.”

Stiles had appreciated Parrish’s calm assumption that they _would_ get Isaac back, but the detective wasn’t finished.  
“The coroner has confirmed time of death, and that it was only minutes after he was shot. So if we can find out what Kate was doing at that time we might have something else.”  
“We can’t just ask her,” Chris said.  
“Obviously, it might be something else we need a court order for. It would be good to get her for his murder though.”

Somehow, even though it wasn’t even a real thing, that had settled everyone else – though not Stiles. All it had done was remind him of the very real danger Isaac was in.

It’s how their ‘plan’ had come about. No one had discussed why Kate might be kidnapping young men, which Stiles found a little strange, but every time he’d tried to develop the theory he’d found the thought blocked; by Chris saying he’d see what he could get from mutual acquaintances, even if that’s unlikely to go anywhere as he seems to have been making a concerted effort to stay well away from anything to do with his sister for over twenty years, or by Peter, who announced that he had the perfect ex-Navy SEAL to examine the terrain from a helicopter and try to get them eyes on somewhere she could be keeping the boys in the forest. 

Derek climbs into bed, pulling Stiles into little spoon, kissing sleepily at the nape of his neck. Stiles allows himself to enjoy it for a moment, before shifting onto his back.  
“Baby, why do you think Kate is taking them?”  
“Didn’t we decide she’s got some freaky The Most Dangerous Game bullshit going on?”  
“You really think that’s it? I don’t know, it feels too weird.”  
“Don’t underestimate her, Stiles. Her viciousness, or what she’s capable of.”  
“I’m having a hard time doing any estimating, Der. Every time I try to mention her I’m shut down or cut off. I mean, I thought Chris walked out because his family were dicks about him being gay, but he presents her as a lot worse than even that, and he hasn’t seen her for decades.”

“It’s because of me,” Derek admits in a small voice.  
“What do you mean? Surely you were about five the last time he saw her?”  
“It was after that. One of the first big roles I got. It wasn’t that long after my parents had died, I was fifteen, and Peter was doing his best, but he was going through a rough time of it. It was before he had Chris and he was trying to look after me, but neither of us knew what we needed. I was sure I wanted to be an actor, and he thought it would make me happy so he let me take the role, even though it wasn’t right for me. It was an independent movie, by Mauvaise Lune, and some of the themes were pretty adult for me. I thought I _was_ adult enough to deal with them. _She_ convinced me I was.”  
“What are you saying? It sounds like you’re saying the pair of you had a thing. But isn’t she about the same age as Chris?”  
“She’s a bit younger. But she was in her late twenties.”  
“Eurgh, gross. That would be like you having a thing with a fifteen-year-old now.”  
“I know. It is gross. But I was convinced I was in love with her. I would have done anything for her. I did do- I let her do anything.”

Even though Stiles can’t see Derek’s face, hidden half in the pillow, he can feel the shame emanating from him.  
“It wasn’t your fault, Der.”  
“I know that now. But I didn’t then. Not for a long time. She had my mind in knots, convinced I wasn’t anything without her. If she’s taking these boys, I don’t think she’s got anything good in mind for them, and I don’t think it’s as simple as hunting them.”

The air between them is dense, with Derek’s shame, with Stiles’ worry. Stiles shuffles himself back around to little spoon, pulling Derek’s arms around himself and finally falling into an uneasy sleep.

* * * * *

They’re awake too early the next day and Stiles huffs his way around the kitchen, making tea but mad about it, because it doesn’t have the kick he needs. Derek did try to convince him to stay in bed, reminded him that Peter wasn’t going to mind having to film around him. But they’re on location today and, even though set had felt safer before, it doesn’t feel safe anymore, so he’s happy they aren’t filming there, but Stiles thinks he can deal with being on location, and pull his weight for the sake of the gang. 

He manages the three scenes Chris has set up for him, but he can’t pretend he isn’t pleased when Peter pulls him away, telling him he’s done for the day.  
“Go home. Rest.” Is the order.  
“Sure thing, boss.”

Peter says he’ll give Derek a ride later, so Stiles can take his car. It’s for the best. His Jeep has been making a clunking noise lately, and he’s worried it won’t make it where he’s going. He’s stopped by a deep voice.  
“Mischief.” It makes a lot of the gawkers – always present behind the barriers during outdoor scenes – look up with interest. One guy, wearing a ballcap pulled low over his eyes, tries to push through to the front, and there’s a few shouts to get his attention. He waves warmly to them, though he doesn’t have the energy to give for face to face interactions, and turns to Boyd, who’d called him.  
“What’s up, Boyd?”  
In his usual deadpan way, Boyd stands, unmoving. “I’m coming with you.”  
“What? You don’t even know where I’m going.”  
That gets a raised eyebrow. “Home, I assume. It doesn’t matter. Derek asked me to.”

Derek’s known Boyd for a long time. When they first met, Stiles had assumed Boyd was a hired hand, just there because he was capable of putting up with Derek’s grumpy ways, but over time, he’d discovered that one of the reasons he is _able_ to put up with him is because he’s known him for years – since their early teens. And now Stiles knows a little bit about what happened to Derek, he can see better why he appreciates Boyd’s unending stoicism. 

Stiles and Derek haven’t had chance to speak about the revelations today, and Stiles refuses to suspect that Derek’s been avoiding him since they arrived on set, but he is hyper-aware that Derek doesn’t _want_ to talk about it. And Stiles is okay with that, honestly. He isn’t the type of boyfriend who demands to know every single thought running through his lover’s head, and he certainly isn’t the type of person to revel in details of awful things. But he does think that what happened to Derek has some bearing on this case, and he’s going to explore that avenue, even if he thinks he might regret it.

“Where are we going?” Boyd asks, finally, when it would be clear to a child that they’re going far in the wrong direction for both Derek’s apartment and Stiles’ own.  
“Can I trust you?”

Stiles appreciates that Boyd doesn’t instantly rush to appease him, claiming to be the most trustworthy person in the world, and he doesn’t seem even the slightest bit offended by the question. Instead he thinks for a moment, before sighing.  
“Is this going to make Derek pissed?”  
“It’s possible.” Stiles has to ask. “Were you around when Derek got into acting? When he was fifteen?”  
The look Boyd gives him is sharp, eloquent, though he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, Stiles mumbles, “So you do know then,” and continues his drive without further questions.

Stiles is surprised that Kate agrees to see him, but the receptionist leads him down a long corridor within minutes of them arriving. She tells Boyd to wait in the seating area outside, and opens the door for Stiles.

The office isn’t exactly as he’d imagined. Very few pentagrams and virgin sacrifices. But they aren’t necessary when Kate Argent herself is seated behind the shiny white desk looking at him expectantly. He knew already what she looks like – obviously he investigated her online – but is taken aback by how much sharper she looks in person, her strong features not tempered by careful lighting. He can sense a vainness to her, in the way she flicks her Farrah Fawcett hair off her shoulders as she smirks at him, and files that away.

“Mischief!” she exclaims, falseness exuding. “I was beginning to wonder how long those men at Hale Productions would keep you from me. But I hear you don’t mind that at all.” He has no idea what her angle is; presumably she’s trying to embarrass him if the snarl of her lips when he just shrugs is any indication.  
“Perhaps,” he says instead, bored, “but I’m not here to talk about _my_ private life.”  
“Oh,” she smirks, “and whose private life do you want to discuss? Derek’s?”  
“Why would I want to discuss Derek’s life with you?” he questions, and is gratified by how it throws her, her eyes widening for a brief moment until she steels herself.

“Well, your little lackeys have already been here, trying to get me to incriminate myself.”  
“They have?” Stiles fakes insouciance, and he thinks he’s better at it than her. “Actually I was only here to tick a box. The police found a body, and I found it interesting that one of the last places he was seen was here.” He doesn’t know if that’s even true, but he needs an opening, and he can see the curiosity brimming behind her eyes. He wonders if she knows already that Perry’s body was found. Maybe she was even in sight when the hikers got there.

But he’s playing a role now. She needs to think he’s dumb, but nosy. That he knows nothing. So he has to tread carefully.  
“And why would you be ‘ticking boxes’? If Gruber had even been here, surely that’s a matter for the police, not some second-rate television actor?” She’s so smug at the dig, she doesn’t even know she’s given herself away.  
“He was a friend of mine,” he lies, but only a bit, because he’s pretty sure he would have been friends with Perry if he’d have known him – everything they’ve learned has painted him as sweet, a little naïve, but a good person. 

He wants to make a leap now, but has to be wary.  
“He told me he was being pressured. That his career could be made, but he’d have to do something he didn’t want to do. Do you know anything about that?”  
“Always playing innocent, you little boys, aren’t you? So desperate for attention, or for success, that any claim that there’s a limit to what you’d do can easily be proven false.”  
“What do you mean?” he wants her to say something direct – to prove his theory is right, even as he hopes with a burning in his throat that it’s wrong.  
“You recording, little Mischief? Trying to get me to implicate myself?”

Stiles starts, because of course he isn’t, and now he actually does feel dumb, because he should be, even as she laughs at him.  
“It doesn’t matter. Absolutely nothing you get from me would be admissible in court.”

Stiles tilts his head, perhaps realizing for the first time what a strapped-down sociopath the woman is. He remembers that Lydia had reported Kate saying something similar before. It’s strange. A normal person would be worried about people knowing anything, but Kate only seems concerned about what will stand up in court. But Stiles suspects she has a wildly inflated sense of her own intelligence, and she isn’t thinking things through objectively. He can get information from her, and worry about anything else when they have Isaac back.

He sucks down the anger he feels at her arrogant attitude, thinking of the other missing that have some kind of direct link to Mauivaise Lune.  
“You know Brett Talbot, don’t you? He auditioned for _Superb_ a few months ago.”  
“Of course. Delightful little thing. More in love with himself than you are, Mischief, but in some ways that’s better. The cracks are lovelier, and come easier.”  
“I’m sure you wouldn’t have any difficulty making him crack,” Stiles prods.  
“None at all. He pretended he didn’t like it, obviously, but they all love the training in the end. Ha! I didn’t even know how much Derek would end up liking it, but you’re living proof.”

Stiles is jarred by the switch to Derek and Kate gets a nasty, knowing look in her eye.  
“If he even lets you, of course. Maybe he doesn’t. I’m not the only one who’s taken him that way, of course, but maybe I’m the only one he obeyed that way. Maybe he doesn’t cry those pretty tears for you at all.”

Stiles is getting the vague shape of an understanding about what happened to Derek; putting the fact that Kate convinced him she loved him into the mix, and now she’s adding this hint about training, which fits very nastily with the idea of her pimping out her young stars for the sake of her more established people. Derek said he ‘let her do anything’; had sounded sickened with himself, with the memory. Stiles is squeezing his own thigh, pressing his long fingers in deep and painfully to try and keep the building anger subdued.

“He was so good for me, you know? So obedient. Wouldn’t even fight the bonds after a while, just laying back with those glossy tears rolling out of those beautiful green eyes.” Stiles feels sick. He’s pretty sure the bitch is getting off on this, shifting a little in her seat and leaning forward, as if she doesn’t want to miss a single reaction on Stiles’ face. “I had to work him over a lot, of course, get him trained and ready for all sorts. He was a busy boy for me; you wouldn’t believe how many of my top people fall over themselves to get hold of a sweet young thing like that. And they’re a ruthless bunch, with that much innocence in their hands. Never had one as good since.” She leans back, a mask of apparently genuine disappointment covering the evil, while Stiles tries to take non-obvious deep breaths to calm down. 

“I’ve tried, of course. Talbot _was_ fun; never stopped claiming he hated it, or fighting. Which is fine. There’s plenty of them who like that too. Most of the boys give in, though. They see what can be done for them, what special treatment they can have. The ones that know, anyway. Sometimes it’s even more fun not to tell them.” She giggles then, a mad thing, and Stiles leans back.

He wants out. He wishes he’d never come. The woman is insane, but no matter how careless she’s being, she isn’t going to give him what he needs and, right now, the thought of even mentioning Isaac is making him break out in a cold sweat. He feels useless – so near and yet so far – reminded with a kick to the face how she holds all of the power. 

He makes a last effort to get _something_ , anything. “You must be busy then. Keeping your big stars happy, managing all these boys.”  
“It never ends.” Her tone has changed, as if they’re simply having a friendly conversation about the pressures of the industry. “I haven’t had a moment to myself for weeks. I need to get away, really, check on things-,” she stopped the thought before it’s formed, and Stiles schools his face, refusing to react. He seems to have been successful, because she sighs. “I’ve been sleeping here for the last week. Won’t be going home until we’ve finished this season of _Superb_ , unfortunately. Will have to wait to find a new trainee until then.” And she laughs, throatily, sickening, looking Stiles up and down with darkened eyes.

Stiles doesn’t breath properly again until he’s outside, Boyd with a hand on his shoulder, steadying him but not speaking – not asking.  
“She’s a fucking lunatic,” is all Stiles says, before he slides into the Camaro, Boyd in the passenger seat.

Stiles’ phone trills just before he turns the key, and he fumbles to answer it, hoping it’s Derek, wanting to hear his voice.  
“Stiles?” It’s not though, it’s Parrish.  
“Has something happened?” Parrish sounds off, so his mind goes to the worst place immediately.  
“Nothing like that,” Parrish reassures. “It’s the things on set. Your poisoning. It was Theo. We’ve arrested him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with a title for this one, and in the end was listening to Reptilia, by The Strokes, which I thought worked well with the snake that is Kate Argent, and that line, that I chose for the title, seemed to fit the crazy she has


	9. Can’t Hear a Word They’re Saying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure I should spend longer editing this, but I'm having too much fun on my own personal run away train.
> 
> For TW - there's some more oblique references to abuse in this chapter but nothing explicit

Jackson can’t sit still. He’s been pacing up and down the small room for twenty minutes, even though he knows everyone in there is aching to scream at him. They’re all on edge, waiting for Parrish.

The door finally opens, and Parrish comes in. Peter takes the chance of the distraction to pull Jackson into his lap, wrapping his long fingers around the back of his neck, just hard enough to remind Jackson of power and authority, and calm him. It should be Chris, but he draws the line at such obvious control techniques in front of his only daughter, who is perched next to Scott with her brows drawn.

“He’s speaking to his lawyer,” Parrish tells them, and Jackson curls a little harder into Peter’s body, trembling.  
“That’s okay though, right?” Stiles asks. “You have evidence; his lawyer is sure to tell him to make it better for himself by telling the truth?”  
Jackson scoffs, but Parrish is nodding.  
“We hope so. We have him red handed – his fingerprints are the last ones that touched the poisoned coffee pods and we have video of him using a ladder to get up to the lights.”

Jackson’s confused. Theo seemed like a bit of a douche. Maybe a bit like Jackson had been before he’d had Peter and Chris. But he hadn’t seemed dumb. He tried to kill someone – maybe not targeting Stiles intentionally, but they’d already confirmed enough poison to kill potentially multiple people – and the idea that he had been so careless doesn’t really fit with who he is as a person. How could someone _that_ dumb play smart the rest of the time? The confusion is getting to him, and he appreciates Peter’s strong hand playing up and down his spine. He kind of wants to go to sleep right now, or, even better, let his Doms take over and make the complexity go away, empty his brain.

A uniformed officer pops her head around the door, gesturing for Parrish, who follows her out.  
“Why?” Derek asks.  
Chris seems to get it. “Maybe he was bitter. The ‘big break’ he turned the show down for was a flop, and he got bad press, even though it wasn’t his fault it was a terrible part.”  
“It’s his fault he chose it,” Lydia snarks, clearly still not over Theo going against her, even though it was years ago.  
“But his part on our movie is a good one. To get to play the villain. It’s a good role,” Stiles insists.  
“Maybe he’s jealous of the bond everyone on the show has. He’s here all the time because it’s a big role, but he might feel like an outsider. Especially because we’ve been focusing a lot on our investigation. We probably haven’t welcomed him very well,” Scott suggests, thinking the best of people, as usual.

Parrish comes in again, speaking to Stiles.  
“I can’t get away with many, but Stiles, you wanna hear this.”  
“I’m coming too,” Jackson announces, and he knows he’s being unreasonable, but he doesn’t care. Stiles looks at him, and then glances between Chris and Peter.  
“Peter, you come too,” he says, and Jackson flushes at how obvious it must be that he needs his Daddy, but then they’re out of the door and heading down the corridor, and he can worry about how much he slips into his headspace in public some other time.

Parrish opens a door and shuffles them inside a darkened room.   
“Just stay quiet, no matter what.”

A moment later, and Jackson sees Parrish walk into the room on the other side of the two-way mirror, sitting with his back to them, next to a large man, in uniform. Theo is seated on the other side of the table – he’d be facing them, except his head is hanging and Jackson can only catch a faint glint of washed-out skin – next to a guy in a suit; so obviously a lawyer he may as well be wearing a sign. Parrish passes a plastic cup toward Theo, and he reaches for it, revealing his wrists cuffed in front of him.

The big guy announces Parrish’s return to the room, presumably for a recording, and takes a breath.  
“So, Theo, can we get back to this? You said you’d explain.”  
“Yeah. Uh, I don’t wanna-,” he glances at his lawyer, who gives him a reassuring nod, but his bottom lip is trembling.  
“Hey, Theo. I get some of this might be uncomfortable. Just start simple. We have you on camera, we have your fingerprints. Can you tell us why you wanted to hurt someone? Are you getting back at someone?”  
“Uh, no. I didn’t want to hurt anyone…I mean- I guess I didn’t think the light through. When I saw how big it looked on the ground- I hadn’t realized how big it was, how dangerous it might be…”  
“Okay. But the poison. You must have known the danger?”  
“I didn’t, I promise. I thought it was just something that would make someone a bit sick. I didn’t know it was so bad until Mischief got taken to the hospital, I was scared then, and I wasn’t going to do anything else, but you found me anyway.”

Jackson is confused by this. It isn’t much of an explanation. But Parrish is obviously quicker off the mark than him, because his voice gets softer, and he leans forward toward Theo.  
“Who gave you the coffee pods, Theo? Who told you to replace them?”  
“I can’t- she’ll be so mad.”  
“Maybe. But isn’t it unfair that you’re getting the blame when you were just following what you were told to do?”  
Theo looks muddled then, torn, but he pouts, as if he’s just working out how unfair it is that _he’s_ the one in a police interview room, when he was just doing as he’s told.

“It was Kate Argent.” His lawyer nods, pleased, and it’s obvious he’s only saying what they agreed, even if it took him a while to get there.  
“So she told you to damage the light, and gave you the coffee pods,” the other officer says. “Did she tell you what paper and film to destroy?”  
“No. She just told me to do it, and I picked whatever was available when I went into the room.”  
“You know the more severe stuff is the coffee and the light?” Parrish asks. “Why did she ask you to do that?”  
“I don’t know,” Theo wails. “I just know she hates them. Everyone at Hale Productions, but especially on _Scott’s Landing_. She gave me a tool that can cut into metal, and she gave me the pods.”

“How do you know her?”  
“I did a movie, a while ago. It was shit. So badly written. I knew that even before I did it, but I really hoped there were enough big names to carry it. There weren’t.” Jackson knows that Kate Argent wasn’t connected to the terrible movie Theo was in, so there must be more coming, but the guy’s shifting uncomfortably at the metal interview table.

“I met Kate at a party. Like an industry party. I’d heard of her, and she knew about me. She told me I was really good, and she wanted to get a part for me. We started dating, sort of.” Theo is blushing, and Stiles is looking angry, watching him.

“Are you okay, Stiles?” Jackson whispers.  
“No. Her version of ‘dating’ is twisted. God only knows what fucked up stuff she had him doing. Still has him doing.” Stiles does a vague hand wave, encompassing ‘all of this’ and Jackson turns nervously back to the window.

“Did she ever get you the part?” Parrish asks.  
“No.” Theo lifts his head, his face morphing into an ugly scowl. “She kept putting me off. Telling me ‘next show, next show’. I just had to do one more thing for her, every time. And then I got this gig, and the new big sidekick for _Super_ was revealed, and I knew I’d be perfect for it. She promised she’d let me audition after I’d done this.”  
“So you agreed?”  
Theo drops his head again and mumbles, “She told me it was just tricks. None of it was too bad, and I’d never get caught as long as I did what I was told. I did, too, she just lied to me.”  
“Theo, I know this is difficult, but I think it’s apparent that Kate doesn’t actually care. She would have said anything.”

The ‘yeah’ from Theo is so quiet Jackson can’t hear it, only see the movement of his lips. He looks broken, not even able to keep hold of the anger that has been fueling him.  
“Can you tell us what she had you doing? Before this.”  
The tears in his eyes are unmistakable, welling huge and shiny, poised on his lower lids. They roll over when he starts to speak, fast but quiet, and Jackson strains to hear.  
“She has parties. I don’t know how often, but I went to four, and I know she had others. ‘Her boys’, that’s what she calls us, we have to perform for her guests, and she likes to mix up who’s there. They- the guests, they’re sometimes the same people, but they’re usually different. They wanna do…stuff. They, uh, use the boys, any way they want. I don’t know how she got the others to obey, but she threatened me sometimes. At first it was only with messing up my career, but as the things got, uh, worse, what they wanted, she’d say she’d hurt me, bad, if I didn’t do what I was told.”

Jackson clutches onto Peter’s arm, feeling sick, but Parrish has stayed calm. Jackson dreads to think some of the things he’s heard in this interview room to barely react to this, only putting a sympathetic look on.  
“You believed that she’d hurt you?”  
“I was certain. Sometimes boys would disappear, and I hardly ever saw the same ones.”  
“But you were working on _Scott’s Landing_? Did she still have power over you? She wasn’t keeping you hostage anymore?” the big cop asked.  
“You don’t get it. She never kept me hostage. She had an apartment, and a few of us were there, but the door wasn’t locked. We could come and go. It was- I can’t explain – you won’t be able to understand. When we first started, and I thought we were together, she was so amazing. I guess I fell in love with her. A couple of the others in the apartment said the same, though most of them were gay. But she switched over to other ways of controlling us. Threaten to hurt us, or our families. Threaten to pin crimes on us, and we knew she could. Some of the men- she’d introduce them as ‘Chief’ or ‘Major’ or something – we all knew she had cops and everything in her back pocket. She made sure we knew.”  
“Do you think that was what this was? Her carrying out her threat?”  
“It might have been. I didn’t think so, at the time. But the lies she told about the damage it would do…and she probably thought I wouldn’t rat on her, because I’d be too scared.”  
“That’s crossed my mind, Theo. Why aren’t you too scared?”  
“I am. Of course I am. But there’s no point protecting her. Even if this gets back to her and she tries to get me killed, or something, it isn’t like I can go back to her now. And she tried to make me _kill_ someone. Even if I walked out of here refusing to tell you anything, I know I wouldn’t be alive for long.”

Theo’s trembling, and Jackson wants to hug him. Not because he especially even _likes_ him, but because he can easily imagine how afraid and uncertain he is. But his thoughts are interrupted when Parrish slips a ring binder onto the table, pointing at a page.  
“Do you recognize anyone here?”  
Theo looks carefully and shakes his head. Parrish just nods and flips the page.  
“Him. He came to one party, I think. Some man chose him, I remember because he’s really pretty, and he didn’t seem bothered by any of it. He was being all chatty and flirty with the men, and he went off happily with that guy. I’ve never seen him since.” Jackson can’t see the pictures, but Theo identifies three other people on the subsequent pages, one of whom he says is still in the apartment Theo calls home. 

The uniform pauses the interview and they leave Theo with his lawyer, and Parrish comes into the room, flipping a switch that makes the interview room mute.  
“He identified Paul Paulson as the one who came to one party, and Shannon Drewson as being still in the apartment. We’ll pick him up, see if he, or the other ones who live there, will tell us anything.”  
“He caved quickly. Is that suspicious?” Peter asks doubtfully.  
“Hourton was working on him for over an hour before you got here. If anything, I’m surprised it took him so long to bend, and in the end it was only the promise of immunity that did it. He’s terrified to end up in prison.”  
“Shouldn’t you have asked my opinion?” Stiles pouts, but Parrish just chuckles.  
“You survived, Stiles. I promise, if he’d killed you, I’d have asked your advice.”

Jackson’s head is dangerously swimmy but he still snorts at that, cuddling harder into Peter, letting the words of the other three wash over him.

“He also identified Brett Talbot and Jonathan Kreb as having lived in the apartment but not being there any longer. He didn’t identify anyone else, including Perry Gruber, but maybe the other boys can. This gives us something, anyway. Hourton’s gone to speak to the Captain. We’ll get a court order for Kate’s house, and for the apartment, and hopefully for her offices too. 

* * * * *

Chris carries Jackson into the apartment and settles him onto the couch. Peter leans over and strokes his hair back.  
“You want to watch a movie, baby boy?”  
“No Daddy, feel icky. Kinda wanna go small, but can’t. Can’t shut my head off about what she was doing. Don’t want to risk thinking of that and being little.”  
“Do you want to go down instead?”  
“Think so. Feel itchy. Is she doing that stuff to Isaac?”  
“I don’t know, pup. But if she is; Isaac’s strong. And we’re going to get him back. We’re getting closer,” Chris says.

Jackson believes him. Probably. Although he feels bad, like he’s letting Isaac down, because that’s all he’s doing – believing that they’ll get him back. Stiles is the one doing most of the work, and Danny has done a bunch of his computer wizardry, and Peter has got someone flying over where they found Perry Gruber, and it just seems as though everyone but him is _doing_ something. And all Jackson wants to do is turn his brain off, and let it back on when they have Isaac back, and he can’t even do that right. 

He yelps when Chris’ strong fingers pinch him, hard, on his side.  
“Stop it, pup.”  
“I think our boy needs a distraction, don’t you?”  
“I do, Peter. Go set up the room.”

Peter disappears, and Jackson thinks he might have a few minutes, but Chris doesn’t allow it, pinching him again just as his mind starts to wander back onto its negative track.  
“Pup, can you hear me?” he asks when Jackson’s recovered.  
“Yes, Sir, of course.”  
“I know you want to help, but you’re dropping at the moment, and you aren’t thinking clearly. Your mind needs to be at a hundred percent before I’ll let you fill it with that stuff. Can I help you get clearer?”  
“Yes Sir, please.”  
“What color are you at?”  
“I’m green, Sir. Please, free my head up.”  
“With pleasure, pup.”

Chris scoops Jackson up, easily carrying him into the bedroom, where Peter has set up the swinging harness on the ceiling grid. The grid usually only gets used to cuff Jackson’s wrists high above his head, because he loves being stretched out and totally vulnerable, and the swing is normally reserved for Peter, but Jackson wriggles with pleasure in Chris’ arms at the thought of being allowed to use Daddy’s toy. 

Chris strips him and carefully fastens him in place, until his ankles are up high and spread and his wrists mirror them, and all he can feel is the thick webbing supporting his shoulders and hips, gravity pulling his body until those points of contact are a continual, pleasurable throb. Another strap holds his head parallel to the floor, but he knows that won’t stay for long.  
“I think our boy needs a stinging distraction,” Peter suggests, and Jackson hums in excitement, especially when Peter hands him a ball with a bell inside it. Jackson is pretty sure it’s a cat toy, that his Doms paid an inordinate amount of money for at a fancy sex shop, but he’s never mentioned it to them, because he loves it, and what it both represents and promises, and if they want to spend stupid amounts on frivolous presents for him, who is he to argue?

He knows the crop and rubber flogger are coming out, because that’s how his Sir makes him sting when he really needs it, like now, and he can already feel the goosebumps forming in anticipation when the pinch comes at his nipple and he can feel Daddy twist the icy-cold metal clamp on. He moans, trying to wriggle in his bonds, overeager for the second one.  
“So eager, baby boy. Always so greedy.”

Jackson doesn’t want to respond with words. Unless they ask him to, he prefers to keep his words to himself during active play, and focus on the noises he knows they love so much. So he just gasps as Peter applies the second clamp, mewling in need, being rewarded by a thumb stroking his cheekbone and a loving look from his Daddy. 

Peter unfastens the webbing behind Jackson’s head, so his neck arches backward and he can just reach the tip of Peter’s cock to lap the salty jewels of liquid from it.   
“Such a good boy, making Daddy feel so good with that perfect mouth. Make sure you stay gentle when Sir gets started.” Jackson huffs out a giggle around the head he’s now suckling, which turns into a muffled yelp when Chris makes the first strike with the crop, though he keeps his jaw relaxed. 

The exact position might be new, but one of Jackson’s favorite things is this, worshipping Daddy’s cock with his mouth, while Sir lavishes all of his attention on making Jackson feel _everything_. Even better, now, is that Daddy can easily reach to twist sharply at the clamps as Sir warms his ass and thighs with the crop, and Daddy slides in deep as Jackson cries out, cutting off the noise into a choked warble.  
“Such a good boy, choking on me.”   
And Jackson loves the contrasts. Peter’s sweet way of delivering filthy compliments combined with the way he holds Jackson’s jaw and roughly owns his mouth; Chris moving onto the harsh flogger now his skin is warmed, regular, forceful attacks making Jackson’s skin _bloom_ , while his calloused fingers chase each strike, dispersing the pain.

He has no idea how long they work him; each expert in their techniques, until he’s swimming and floating and flying all at once, barely breathing then sucking in air, body crackling with energy and perfectly relaxed, sweet drops of glossy tears forced from closed lids, constant hum of happiness flowing from him.

Later, when he’s curled up, safe and warm between Daddy and Papa, he knows they _will_ find Isaac, and his mind finally feels clear.

* * * * * 

Stiles feels bad. Right from the start, Derek’s apartment was mission control – it’s far larger than Stiles’ own, and Lord knows what they would have uncovered at Peter’s – and Derek has taken the whole thing with amazing grace…considering. Considering what this whole case is reminding him of about his own past, considering the fear that is bringing forward about Isaac’s wellbeing, considering, more simply, how draining he finds _people_. But here he is, baking cookies again (out of a packet, but who cares?), making drinks, answering the door for new callers every few minutes. Being _there_ , and Stiles feels an almost overwhelming wave of love for him.

Stiles sneaks up behind him as another sheet of cookies is closed into the oven, intending to wrap him in a warm hug, but Derek jumps, spinning and pinning Stiles to the counter.  
“Fuck, sorry baby,” Derek breathes out a laugh, his forearms pressed against Stiles’ sides, not moving away despite realizing his mistake. Stiles’ heart beats hard as he looks up into Derek’s darkened eyes.  
“Sorry for scaring you,” he soothes.  
“Only at first,” and Derek’s voice is close to a purr, leaning in to run his nose against Stiles’ jawline, and Stiles is reminded that this is the closest they’ve been for _days_ other than brief hugs and the too-few minutes before and after sleep. Certainly the most charged they’ve been since Isaac vanished. He has an urge to forget everything, just for a while, just for long enough to drag Derek into the bedroom, to push him down and straddle him, to ride him sweet and hard: to allow them both a moment of reprieve. 

But he’s brought back by voices raised in discussion, and instead carries a plate of warm cookies to the coffee table, taking his usual stance by his boards as he takes in what people are saying. 

“So she’s set up some kind of bordello?” Lydia asks.  
“She seems to have a mix of people who are there voluntarily and people she’s forcing,” Danny suggests.  
“She’s been brought in. Theo’s accusations are enough to start with, but we have nothing yet. She’s refusing to speak until her lawyer arrives, and he’s currently in Madrid,” Parrish admits.   
“Did you go to the apartment Theo lives at though?” Peter asks him.  
“We did, but no one was there. We’ve had to request another court order for the area outside, to establish whether they left of their own accord. And we have bad news on that front. There’s no way Kate killed Perry Gruber. She wasn’t lying to Stiles when she said she hasn’t left her offices for days. We’re checking the cameras and logs thoroughly, but so far we haven’t found anything that changes that.”

Derek had been furious, the day before, when Stiles had admitted where he’d been, but the fire was taken from him in the most soul-wrenching way when Stiles had repeated, delicately couched in euphemistic terms, what she’d told him. Derek had curled up, refusing all attempts at care from Stiles, for hours. He’d forcefully pulled himself together after that – going for a long run and beating at the punching bag in the spare room until his knuckles were bruised. Some catharsis had happened – he was back to his usual self by this morning – and he’d apologized to Stiles, promising they’d discuss it, but only once Isaac was back with them.

“Did you get anything from your helicopter pilot, Peter?” Stiles asks.  
“Nothing conclusive. Various old abandoned logger’s cabins, but no movement in the forest, and he took several passes. I don’t know if it will turn up anything, but I’ve hired a search and rescue team. If we think this isn’t the first time she’s taken someone up there, they might find something. They, uh, they have dogs with them.”

Stiles thinks he knows the reason for his uncertainty. The only dogs they need in that dangerous environment will be looking for one thing – and he isn’t going to be mentioning cadaver dogs in front of Jackson, especially as he seems so much brighter today.

“But it isn’t her? You just said she had an alibi?” Scott is confused. As usual.  
“For all we know, she has one of her ‘boys’ doing her dirty work for her. It would seem right up her M.O.,” Peter sneers.

Parrish’s cellphone rings and he excuses himself, returning after a few minutes with a grimace on his face, rubbing a hand over his eyes.  
“I really have to stop answering my phone. Your searchers, Peter, they’ve found something. A body part. It’s being driven down to the coroner’s office now. Who’s coming with me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would love to know what you think :-)


	10. Pleading for some Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bodies and Revelations

Stiles has no idea what strings Jordan is pulling to allow him to be so involved with what’s going on, but he’s feeling almost honored. Stiles is used to people finding him a little flakey, a little too buzzed to take seriously, because of his ADHD. Not these days, so much, but it takes time for a lifetime’s conditioning to work its way out, and Jordan’s inherent approval of Stiles’ thoughts and suggestions makes him feel almost special, like maybe he’s capable of something unique.

He’s glad Derek wanted to come too, though he’d been waiting for Jackson to insist. He’s not exactly been dealing with Isaac’s disappearance flawlessly, becoming increasingly, and publicly, clingy to Chris and Peter – and Stiles doesn’t think Jackson’s even aware of it. Stiles is pleased to see how much the two older men care for him, but he’s worried; Jackson’s head doesn’t seem clear and he’s only getting worse the longer they don’t know.

Jackson _had_ been relatively calm today, but the news from Jordan made him curl up against Peter, squeezing the man’s hand tightly enough that he had to extricate himself and use it to softly stroke Jackson’s cheek instead. He knows Jackson’s thinking the worst, but Stiles refuses to. He won’t believe it until they have proof. 

“I got the call, Parrish, from Peter Hale. We’ve sent the fingerprints and blood samples to the private lab, but it will still be a few hours before they have any results for us,” the coroner, a stern-faced woman in her forties, says.  
“Can you show us the body?” Stiles asks.  
She sighs, “It’s a long way from being a body, I’m afraid.” She walks down the clinical white-walled corridor ahead of them, speaking over her shoulder. “They carried on searching the area, but it would seem animals probably made away with the rest.”  
“Does that mean it’s been there a long time?” Derek asks hopefully.  
“Not necessarily. You’d be surprised at how quickly animal activity can disperse a corpse.”

Stiles really hopes the woman is assuming they’re cops too. Otherwise she’s way harsh. Though she’s a coroner, so maybe this is normal.

She uses the keypad to open the door of the cool room, approaching the steel bench in the center, which would normally hold a body, but now holds something much, much too small to be one, covered in a white sheet. When they all stand along the edge, her at the top, she sweeps the sheet away, revealing a hand, curled as if trying to grab at something, with a slim wrist – the entire appendage truncated below the point where the elbow would begin, sharp white ulna and radial bones peeking out from ragged, dull flesh. Wrapped around the wrist is a braided leather bracelet, with a small, flat tag.

Stiles takes an involuntary step back and his hand flies to his mouth.  
“Stiles, what is it?” Jordan asks, as Derek steadies Stiles with a hand on his arm.  
“Uh, that bracelet. You didn’t put it on?” It’s a stupid question, of course; it doesn’t even vaguely resemble a plastic ID bracelet, but Stiles _really_ wants it to be something the coroner has carefully wrapped around that rubbery-looking skin.  
“No,” she tilts her head. “It’s fairly tight on the wrist, that’s why it didn’t slide off. Might be why the hand survived at all. Animals may have been put off by the metal, and because the leather is coated.”  
“Come on, Sti, what is it?” Derek asks a little desperately.  
“Shit. Lorilee Talbot…Brett’s sister. When I spoke to her, and she told me what he was wearing the day he vanished. Shit, I just-,”  
“It’s okay, baby. He was wearing a bracelet, right? Like this?”  
“Yeah. She gave it to him. She told me he never takes it off.”

Stiles doesn’t want to go and see Lorilee Talbot, at all. But they talked about it and knew it was unfair to leave her hanging longer than necessary. They still put it off. She isn’t at home when he phones her, trying to sound like he isn’t getting ready to give her the worst news of her life, and he arranges to see her tomorrow. And then the coroner throws them a bone, of sorts. Reminds them that even when the results come back from the lab, they won’t be much use without something to compare them against.

So when they arrive at her apartment – the apartment she was sharing with her brother – they have a plan, but Stiles is struggling to keep it together, with what he knows.  
“Can I get you a tea or coffee?” she asks, quietly. Stiles suspects that ‘quiet’ isn’t really what she’s like, but that Brett vanishing has broken her, made her uncertain in ways she didn’t used to be. He asks for water, and follows her into the kitchen to help.

“Will you tell me why you’re here?” she asks as soon as they’re alone, turning huge, red-rimmed eyes to him. He can’t. Not yet, and he hates himself more than a little for being such a coward.  
“We’re just looking for some extra information. Do you have anything that hasn’t been touched? Like a hairbrush?”  
“DNA?”  
“And maybe fingerprints too.”  
She keeps staring for a moment, maybe wanting to ask, but never wanting to know, and she nods, briefly, sharply, before passing Stiles his glass and carrying two more into the living room.

“You can look in his bedroom.”  
Jordan nods, and leaves. Stiles knows he has evidence bags in his jacket, and will get something they can use to compare.

“Would you give blood?”  
“Is someone injured?”  
“Ah…no. For comparison. If it’s needed.”  
Again, she stares. He wants to tell her. Right now it seems pointless to hide it, but it’s kinder to have something categorical to give her. He feels like she might refuse to believe the truth if it’s anything less.

From the other room, Stiles hears Jordan’s phone go, and hears the quiet mumbles of him talking to someone, hears the raise in his pitch that makes him sound surprised.

When he comes back, he has a hairbrush in a clear bag, and a razor in another. He’s moving jerkily, awkwardly, and Stiles quickly makes their excuses, telling Lorilee they’ll be in touch soon. She watches them from the window, her face haunted and drawn, so Jordan drives away before saying anything. 

“It’s not him.”  
“What?”  
“The DNA came back. Whoever it was, he was female.”  
“Er…?”  
“Trans. There were the effects of long-term hormone use, though not immediately before death. Though they can’t say exactly when he stopped taking the hormones. Whether it was days or weeks.”  
“It could be an explanation if he was someone in the apartment. A reason for agreeing to be there,” Derek suggests. “Those kinds of drugs are expensive.”

* * * * *

There’s a new surprise when they arrive at the precinct. Graham Booker is waiting in the foyer, long leg crossed, dangling a patent crocodile loafer off one toe. His hair is artfully wild, perfect platinum, and his eyes are massive and ocean blue, set in a face the color of MAC number 30. When he stands, Stiles is surprised he can, his jeans are so tight, but he is extraordinarily pretty, and he flashes a shy smile which transforms the slightly cynical cast of his features.

“Detective Parrish?” he looks between the three of them, biting a plump lower lip.  
“Mr Booker. I’m very pleased to see you,” Jordan responds, reaching out a hand to shake.   
“Um. I came…shit. This is embarrassing. I had to go to my old place, and my roommate told me my employer had reported me missing, so I figured I needed to tell you guys so you didn’t waste time looking…?”  
“Would you mind if we asked you a few questions, just so we can close the case?”

Booker agrees, and they go into one of the more comfortable interview rooms, which Stiles assumes is for the non-criminals, because it has a wooden table, and the chairs have cushioned seats.  
“This is Mr Hale and Mr Stilinski. They’re consultants,” Jordan tells him, and Stiles hides a smile at the promotion, but he figures Jordan wants Booker to relax. They’ve suddenly had the potential for a real lead land in their laps.  
“I guess you want to know why I haven’t been home? Why my boss decided to report me missing?”  
“We can sure start there,” Jordan suggests, and Booker takes a deep breath.  
“Did you speak to my roommate? He told you what I do for a living? Well, you spoke to my boss.” He doesn’t pay attention to their nods, just stares at the unprepossessing watercolor on the far wall and powers through. “I was approached by a woman, asking if I wanted a long-term gig. I was meant to ‘entertain’ some clients of hers, or something. She didn’t give me full details but the place I was working wasn’t great. Wasn’t exactly legit, if you catch my drift, and I’d been looking for a way out of what I was doing so I didn’t ask for details either. She paid me ten grand up front and told me I’d get ten times that at the end of my contract. She signed me up for eight months and put me in an apartment. Honestly? I never expected to see the money at the end, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. For me, it was a risk worth taking. 

“My first night working, she warned me to get ready for something intense, and she told me I’d better behave or I’d regret it.”  
“She threatened you?” Jordan asks.  
“I suppose. She don’t know much though, because I used to get worse than that on a nightly basis. It barely even registered. Anyway, I had to go to some party. A driver took me there. There were a load of guys, like me I suppose, pretty boys in not many clothes, a lot of them angsty and nervous, so I doubt they were all from my kind of background. A couple of them were tweaking, too, I’d say, so they’d probably been given something to get through it. It was easy work, just flirting at first, a bit of dancing, putting on a bit of a show for the guys who must have been her clients. There were only about six of them, so it never actually got that intense, whatever she’d said. Maybe it was a taster though, I did hear a couple of the other boys say they should make the most of it being an easy one.

“Anyway, after that there was another party, about a week later. Different guys. More going on. More demands. Nothing I couldn’t deal with, though. But I kinda realized I hadn’t exactly escaped much, so the third time, about two weeks after that, as soon as I saw- I dunno, there was just one guy who didn’t seem as sleazy as the rest. Not sleazy at all, actually. I don’t want to- anyway, he liked me, and he took me out of there. Back to his hotel room. And I must have done something right because she visited me the next day and she told me if I kept making him happy she wouldn’t make me do any more parties. Obviously, I agreed. Easily the best job I’ve ever taken on.”

“Where were you living?”  
“She gave me an apartment, though I’ve barely been there in months.”

“So, you just worked with that man this whole time?” Stiles asks. “I’m guessing you don’t want to say who he is?”  
“Listen, he’s a nice guy. I got lucky. I know a little about him now, but I aint dropping him in it with the cops. He was just important enough to her that she _really_ wanted him kept happy, and I didn’t find it so hard to do that. I even- I don’t know, we might have been developing something real, even. He wasn’t paying me, but he knew she was. And he’d buy me presents. But it still- it wasn’t really like that. He’s my friend. More. I don’t know now, anyway, because she came round a couple of days ago and told me to get out, said it was all over and I’d better forget I ever heard her name.”  
“And did you?” Derek pushes.  
“Nah. Her name’s Kate Argent, but I’m pretty sure you guys knew that already.”

“Did you ever see any of the other boys again? The same ones at those parties?”  
“One who was at all of them, Ty. There were a couple of guys I saw in the apartment block. Other than that there was only one time. Ales- the guy, he was invited to some event and brought me. It wasn’t a party like the others, we were there more as trophies, you know, eye candy? We didn’t have to do anything. But I recognized a couple other boys from that last party. They weren’t all there, though.”

Booker agrees to look through the pictures, and he picks out Brett and Pierre White as living the same place he did, and also Karl Williams and Jonathan Kreb from the event, though he didn’t know their names. Just before he leaves, Derek stops him.  
“You get a contract?”  
“Yeah, but it aint worth anything, is it?”  
“I don’t know. But get a copy to Mauvaise Lune, at least you’ll go on the list as a creditor.”  
Booker shoots a small, surprisingly sweet smile, and he’s gone.

“Soft on the pretty boy, baby?” Stiles asks with a grin.  
“It might not have been Kate who was the one who messed him up, but at the very least he deserves what she promised him. I figure that would be a justice for him. And now we just need to get justice for the rest of them.”

Stiles is exhausted when they get back to Derek’s, but Derek makes them hot chocolate and they snuggle down to try work out where they are.  
“It feels like we’ve got two mysteries here,” Derek suggests, gently rubbing at the nape of Stiles’ neck.  
“I know. Like, we have Kate Argent, sex offender. Setting up some harem for her skeevy business interests. Forcing and blackmailing and buying boys to sex her clients up and keep them happy. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was using that to blackmail some of the clients, too. Investors and stuff.”  
“We really should have pushed Graham for the name of his guy.”  
“Probably. You were too much in lurve though.”  
“Only with you, you cheeky little shit.”   
Stiles nuzzles into Derek, giggling.

He takes a breath though, wanting to work through this.   
“Anyway, then there’s the darker side. People ending up dead. Do you think all the boys are meant to end up dead? Do you think Booker only survived because we were gunning for her? She couldn’t kill a bunch of them off at once. Might explain why she offered him so much money, if she knew she was never going to have to pay it.”  
“Maybe,” Derek conceded. “But I’m seeing the shape of something else. Perry was sweet. Everyone said so. And Paul Paulson was the one who Theo only saw at one party and then he wasn’t there anymore – and his roommate said he was a really nice guy, considering what he did for a job. Looking at Booker, he’s a different kind of person – a bit sharper and more savvy. And Isaac…well, we all know how likable he is.”  
“You think she’s picking off the nice ones?”  
“I think it’s something we need to consider.”

Stiles’ phone rings then, and he’s tempted to ignore it, to slide deeper with Derek’s strong arms wrapping tightly around him, but he can’t, and reaches grumpily for it, sitting up sharply when he sees Lorilee’s name flash up.

She doesn’t let him say anything.  
“He called me. Brett’s in Canada.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all know even a private lab and a lot of money takes more than mere hours to provide DNA details. Suspend for me 😁


	11. Broken Open

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This feels complicated to me, and I know what's going on, so, sorry 😖 but please stay with me - it's going somewhere and there's going to be a lot of clarification in the next chapter.
> 
> Plus TW for more of Kate Argent and her skeevy beatch ways

It’s marginally less agonizing than the last time Stiles had been in the apartment, but not by much. Brett is a lot paler than Stiles remembers him; thinner and fragile. Peter had arranged him coming home, so they haven’t had to wait, but Stiles can see he desperately needs sleep. He’d insisted they come now, though, apparently as soon as Lorilee told him that Stiles had been worried and started the investigation.

“Thank you.” His eyes look haunted as they flick momentarily to Stiles and then look, just as quickly, away.  
“I didn’t do anything. I wish I had. I wish I could have saved you from what was happening, whatever that was.”  
“Sweetie,” Lorilee takes Brett’s hand, “I know this is hard, but I think you need to tell Stiles and the Detective what happened. I know you aren’t ready to tell me, so I’ll go make drinks, but there’s still people missing, and your information could help.”

He nods dumbly as she gives him one last pat and leaves the room. He’s gazing intently, like his knees offer the answer to the meaning of life, and he doesn’t lift his eyes even as he starts to speak, quietly, but clear.  
“I think you did save me. I don’t know the details, but I think it was something you did. I’ll try start at the beginning in a minute, but the person I was with, he got a phone call; I heard him screaming about crossing international lines and getting really panicky. Like, _really_ panicky. And he put his phone on speaker because he was throwing clothes in a case, and I heard her telling him his problem would go away if he killed me. I think he’d forgotten I was there, because I hadn’t been able to move freely around the house before – it was only because he freaked out so bad. But as soon as I heard that, I knew I had to sneak away. He was distracted enough that I don’t think he even noticed – he didn’t chase me. I didn’t have any keys, or even any shoes, but there was a bicycle in the garage, so I stole it. When I found a police station they let me call Lori. I didn’t even know I was in Canada until then.” He lets out a little sob, his fists clenching and unclenching until he takes a deep breath, talking to the window this time.

“Anyway, I don’t know when it was. I don’t even know what day it is now.” He doesn’t stop long enough for them to tell him, just sucks in air and continues, “But I went to see Kate Argent for a second audition. It was a bit strange – you don’t normally see the boss of the whole company at an audition, but they said she makes the final decision on all casting. Afterwards she took me into her office. She told me I had promise, but- but she wasn’t sure I wanted it bad enough. She had this _look_ in her eye. You know? I knew what she wanted…well, I thought I knew. But then she called this man in. She told me to show her how bad I wanted it. So- so I did.”

His face is puce and he’s twisting his fingers so hard it looks painful. Stiles wants to say something, try to take some of the agony, watching Brett’s jaw tense and release as he relives the memory, but he doesn’t think he can say _anything_ that will make it easier right now, so he stays silent, waiting.

“Afterwards, she told me the part was mine, provided I kept proving I wanted it. She even had a contract, for the part. And then a separate contract. I had to- it was like I had to _give_ myself to her, for six months, and then the role would be mine. I’m not stupid. I know that contract would never be legally binding, but she showed me the clause in the contract for the part that meant she could drop me if I didn’t do the first one. Thing is, I know _that_ wouldn’t stand up, either, but I think she saw me thinking that, and she reminded me she could afford a lot of expensive lawyers and I couldn’t – not until I’d regained a career, anyway, and she could make sure I did that. And then she told me what she wanted, and it didn’t seem that bad, though it was weird, and I figured I could deal with it.”

“What did she want?” Jordan asks, as intrigued as Stiles by now.  
“She put me in an apartment, on my own, and told me I have to give a, you know, performance, for a camera, three times a day, at the same time.”  
“Nothing else?”  
“Not then. I just had to jerk it in front of a camera. You see? It didn’t seem all that bad.”  
“But why didn’t you tell Lorilee where you were? You didn’t have to tell her what you were doing,” Stiles asks.  
“That was one of the terms. I had no access to the internet at any other time – it was switched off, and I had to stay on the screen for the whole time for the show. Kate told me she’d explain everything to Lori like I was training for my role, and I only found out she hadn’t when I spoke to Lori last night.”

Stiles shares a look with Jordan. This is weird. But Jordan seems to have a better understanding.  
“It didn’t stay that simple though, did it?”  
“No. I’m so dumb. It took me ages to work out she was conditioning me. Fuck, I _didn’t_ even work it out at all, really, I just kept doing what she told me. 

“After about a week, I think, Kate called me – she’d given me a phone but it had no ability to make calls out. And told me to go to the ‘common area’. That was the first time I’d been out of the apartment, though I could see that there were gardens outside, but I’d never seen anyone in them, and the edges had really tall trees – fir trees – so you couldn’t see any further. That’s when I realized it was a house, remodeled into apartments. And the common area was downstairs, and there were three guys there. All about my age. Pierre, Ronnie and Ty. Ty said Kate liked him to be available to help settle new people in. He was almost bored, I think. He didn’t seem bothered by any of it – he answered questions, but he didn’t seem to know much. He said his role was a bit more active than mine. I didn’t understand then. I didn’t ask much, I didn’t want to get into trouble, though the security man who watched us the whole time never said anything – but I’m sure he was listening, and would tell Kate what we talked about.

“We did that every week. Got together to talk. I think it was so we didn’t go crazy, or do anything desperate. Ty wasn’t there every time, only when someone new was in the house, and I’m not sure, but I think he was allowed to come and go, though no one else was allowed. There were several security men, and I think they lived there.”

“So, she started demanding more?” Jordan asks.  
“One day, one of the security men opened my door. He had a parcel. It was- it was, like, a toy. And lube. And my phone rang. That’s when I realized she had cameras in the apartments. She told me I had to start ‘incorporating’ it into my shows. 

“I don’t know how long I was in the apartment. She’d send new toys every now and then. And then I had to start going to parties. I thought it might be easing off, because they were fancy events. She even sent me a suit. I was kind of being an escort. I just had to be pretty and not say much. I didn’t hate that. 

“Then it changed. She moved me out of the apartment. Into a shared one. And I realized it was different. A lot different. They told me the things they had to do. The ‘parties’ they went to. I felt- I don’t know. Now, I see I could have escaped. I could have run. But at the time? I guess I felt trapped. I think I was maybe depressed? I just felt as though all this stuff was happening _to_ me, and I had no agency in changing it.

“I made friends with a couple of the guys there. One of them, Karl, was such a sweet guy, so completely out of his depth. He had these huge bambi eyes and just looked confused all the time. He wasn’t even twenty yet, and I think he was pretty naïve before he’d moved in. He told me some guy had told him he could be a model, and had taken some shots of him, and had got really excited when he found out Karl used to be a girl, like _really_ excited, and had offered him a drink, and then Karl had woken up in the apartment. And then he’d met Kate, who’d offered to pay him if he did dances for his clients and let them ‘see’. Karl didn’t like that, but Kate had said she’d pay for the hormones he needed, so he leapt at it, in the end. He said a friend of his had needed to hook for the money, so just dancing seemed like an easy way to make it. 

“But then one day Kate came for him, told him she was taking him somewhere better. He was scared, and I gave him the bracelet Lori gave me for my birthday. She’d given it to me when I was feeling down, and told me to remember how much she loved me every time I looked at it. So I gave it to Karl and kind of said the same thing. I was really fond of the little guy, he was a real sweetheart. Did you speak to him yet?”

Stiles feels a lump in his throat, but Jordan is still professional.  
“We still haven’t found a lot of the boys. What you’re telling us is really helpful, and will hopefully help us trace more people. What happened then?”  
“It was more of the same, until I woke up in that guy’s house. I must have been drugged. I don’t know how they got me there, and, until I ran away, I never saw anything. I don’t even know his name – there was no one else there – he kept me locked in a room, and there were bars on the window. He’d come in there most nights. There was even a slot in the base of the door, and he’d slide food under it, but not every day, and I don’t think he was there all the time. He’d drug the food sometimes, because he wanted to move me. I never actually walked out of the door that was my bedroom, but sometimes, and on the day I escaped, I was in another room, in the basement. His phone rang that day, and he answered it, and that’s when he freaked out and just ran out. I wasn’t tied up that time, so I snuck up the stairs and heard him. That’s when I ran away.”

Brett’s been almost calm during the telling, clearly tense, and holding back tears at points, but distanced from his words. Stiles sends a text to Peter. The boy is going to need counselling. A whole bunch of therapy. And Stiles knows Peter will make sure that happens.

He agrees to go to the precinct to look at the pictures and do a composite for the man and Jordan takes him there, with Lorilee, while Stiles goes to meet the others at Derek’s place.

He falls into Derek’s arms when he gets there, needing comfort. The whole thing is making him desperately sad; for what Derek went through, for what all these boys have gone through.

There is a break of sorts – Brett has no idea where the original apartment block he was kept in is, but Jordan has thought to ring Graham Booker and ask him, and Jordan rings Stiles, saying uniform officers have been, and were able to find Ty Henry, Pierre White, and Luke Lewis, and they’re all being questioned but seem mainly fine, and the police arrested two ‘security guards’ who attempted to stop them from helping the boys. Jordan thinks they’ll get more evidence against Kate Argent from them. He’s also discovered that Jonathan Kreb returned home after Kate shut the shared apartment down, so he’s sending someone to pick him up, though they haven’t yet found any trace of Shannon Drewson, who also lived in the shared apartment.

“I’m confused,” Scott says, turning his best puppy-dog eyes on Stiles. No change there then.  
“What’s to be confused about? Kate Argent is a pimp. But she clearly has a different use for the angelic ones. And we need to track what that is.” Lydia goes back to her tablet while Stiles stares, open mouthed. He and Derek haven’t had chance to put their theory forward, but it seems she’s spotted it too. Derek gently closes Stiles’ gaping jaw.  
“Exactly,” Derek confirms. “We’ve updated the list.” He points at the whiteboard.

>

Name | Missing | Further Info  
---|---|---  
Ty Henry | October | Used to control the others? Savvy. Lived in house w/ BT – Found   
Ronnie Michaels | November | Lived alone in house w/ BT – unknown location  
Pierre White | December | Lived alone in house w/ BT – Found   
Graham Booker | December | Lived in house w/ BT. Alive – had regular ‘client’  
Brett Talbot | January | Lived alone in house, then shared apart - Alive  
Karl Williams | January  | (hand found July) – trans. Considered sweet. Shared apart, taken away  
Paul Paulson | February | Nice – went to 1 party  
Bodie Simmons | February | ???  
Jonathan Kreb | March | Shared apart – Found   
Luke Lewis | April | Lived in house – Found  
Perry Gruber | May | (Body found July) – nice/sweet  
Shannon Drewson | May | Lived shared apart – unknown location  
James Phelps | June | ???  
Isaac Lahey | July  | So sweet it hurts  
  
“So now we have Perry and Karl Williams who are dead and were found up in the national forest. Peter’s search team are still working, but haven’t found anything more yet, but the coroner thinks that’s unlikely, because of all the wild animals. So we haven’t traced Ronnie Michaels or Shannon Drewson, but the information we have on both of them puts them as confident and mature, plus they were definitely part of the ‘harem’ for an extended time. We think they will turn up, and that they aren’t part of whatever is going on up there. But the information we got from the families of the other missing boys puts them more on the other side of the spectrum. Descriptions like sensitive, sweet, amenable – so we think there’s something in that. Plus the fact that Bodie Simmons and James Phelps haven’t been identified by any of the others, and Paul Paulson was only seen once – makes it seem like they aren’t part of that side of it, and they were wanted for something else.”

Lydia examines the board.  
“But that completely destroys the timeline theory? I mean, weren’t we thinking it was some kind of psychosis thing, and whoever was taking them had a timescale of three to four weeks between each one?”  
“What if Karl Williams kicked something off? He was the first as far as we know. You said Brett said he was a bit naïve and lost. But he was trans, and maybe that angered whoever had him, and it set this in motion?” Danny suggests.  
“That can’t be it. He went missing a few weeks after Brett, but he can’t have been taken away from the house until March, at least, given what Brett told us. It does keep Kate Argent firmly in the frame for the disappearances, though, even for the ones who weren’t in the harem. Because she’s the one that took him away,” Stiles says, formulating his thoughts.  
“But what the hell does she want them for? And she knew Karl was trans,” Danny responds.

“So, maybe she’s passing them off to someone who has a particular desire. Someone important enough for her to keep supply coming who wants someone sweet. Maybe Bodie Simmons was first, and then Paul Paulson, and then Karl,” Derek says.  
“But if it was a sexual thing, there isn’t a big link between them, other than them being sweet. Bodie had a girlfriend, Paul was a gay rent boy, and Karl was trans. It doesn’t make sense. Don’t psychopaths usually have really specific types?” Stiles complains.

“So maybe it’s not?” Allison wonders, and Danny scoffs, but Stiles sees a glimmer of something in that.  
“It’s possible. In fact, if Bodie and Paul were almost at the same time, maybe it was so whoever it is could choose. Or there was always meant to be two even, and one of them messed up – maybe tried to escape or something, and then Kate needed a replacement urgently, and she only had Karl who fit whatever criteria she’s working to. Or, who knows, maybe there was someone we don’t know about in between.”  
“Shit, don’t say that,” Danny goes pale. “This is horrendous enough without thinking that.”  
“Okay, we’ll assume for now we have all the names. And if that’s the case, maybe whatever the psycho had ‘worked’ for a while, because Perry wasn’t taken until May. And wasn’t killed until July. But James Phelps was taken in June. And then Isaac in July,” Stiles summarizes.  
“This is a mess. There’s too much crossover for any of our theories. I don’t think we’ll know until we find out who she’s giving them to,” Lydia says.  
“And now Kate can’t supply anyone, who knows what will happen? We need to find Isaac.” They all nod at Stiles’ words, but every face shows desperation.

When Jordan arrives, they crowd him.  
“Please tell us you have something,” Stiles demands.  
“Nothing good. Brett was able to identify several people, but we knew them all, so it just confirms that. We have a composite for the man who had him, but he couldn’t pick him out of our books, so he isn’t someone known to us.”  
“You need to show him pictures of Kate Argent’s executives and her investors. You must have their names from the search at her offices,” Stiles tells him, and Jordan sends off a message. 

“The coroner told me something interesting though,” he says. “The hand, that we’re almost sure belongs to Karl Williams, had a large amount of atropine in it. It’s hard to tell, apparently, but she thinks it’s enough to cause death.”  
“So poisoned. Not shot.” Stiles doesn’t say that it isn’t much use without more bodies to discover if it really means anything in terms of M.O., but he can tell at least Lydia is thinking it too.  
“It’s a link to what happened to you, Stiles, which brings it right back to Argent. We won’t be able to get a full confirmation on Karl though. He was reported missing by his employer, who had no idea he was trans, and we can’t trace anyone else. He probably wasn’t known anywhere official by that name. And Williams is too common a surname, though I do have one of the uniforms checking the missing person’s lists for anyone else with that name.”

“We’re getting somewhere though?” Derek looks almost pleadingly at Jordan.  
“I have news that I don’t know if you’ll think is good or bad. You know Kate Argent was refusing to speak to us without her lawyer, who’s overseas? She really isn’t very bright. It’s strange. She has this arrogance about her, but she doesn’t seem to possess any critical thinking. Anyway, he still hasn’t arrived – she even signed a document to stay in custody rather than take a different attorney. But the conditions aren’t exactly luxurious, and she was getting more and more irate. I even spoke to him myself, and he sounds terrified of her. She has something on him, and I’m showing his picture to all of the boys, and we’ll be looking very closely at him when he returns to the States. But, anyway, he’s actually under subpoena on a case in Italy, so he’s stuck there, and she finally agreed to let a public defender speak for her. So she’s out on bail, as she would have been days ago if she’d just done that in the first place. Not clever.”  
“What? She’s out?” Stiles feels sick.  
“Don’t worry. I spoke to Peter before we let her out, and his private eye is on her. Plus, we have all of her call records. But the only person she phoned is her father, so nothing there yet, but we’ll know as soon as she calls anyone else.”

“What? Shit,” Stiles feels as though his nose is about to start bleeding, a pressure in his head. He takes deep breaths; he can’t afford to devolve now. Derek sees the panic forming and pulls him close, whispering words he knows calm, telling Stiles to focus on the picture of the ocean on the wall and count.  
“What’s going on?” Jordan whispers to Lydia. 

Stiles can do this. The thought that had been forming just arrived with him fully formed and he _has_ to get it out. Isaac _needs_ him.  
“Why is Kate the way she is?” he huffs out, still taking deep breaths, bringing it back under control.  
“She’s psycho?” Scott suggests.  
“Well, yeah. But why are you the way you are? What made you that way?”

Scott continues bemused, but Lydia sits up, wide eyed.  
“Her father! Her father's why she is the way she is.”  
“But Chris isn’t psycho,” Scott argues.  
“Obviously, but he saw that messed up life for what it was didn’t he? He escaped as soon as he could. Certainly before it got this bad.”  
“Shit, so that call could have been something,” Jordan smacks his forehead.

“Sorry Jordan, shut your ears.” He doesn’t, but nods to Stiles, so he continues, “Danny, you need to trace any property her father owns. And he’s crazy too, like her, but I don’t think he’s dumb, so I don’t think it will be easy.”  
“I’m on it,” Danny says, gathering his stuff. “I need my gig at home, so I’ll let you know when I have something.”

Stiles calls Peter.  
“Your private eye still on Argent?”  
“Don’t call her that, please. Bitch will do. Anyway, yes, Braeden’s following her. She’s done nothing since leaving the precinct. Picked up takeout, made a call, though I understand Parrish is on that, and went home. Hasn’t left.”  
“Okay. Tell her to double down. Something is kicking off.”  
“You have something?”  
“Yes. But don’t tell Jackson. We still don’t know if it’s bad or good. How’s he doing?”  
“Not great. He went for a run. His own head isn’t a great place right now.”  
“Okay, take care of him. We’ll have something soon. Danny’s on it.”

When he turns back to the others they’re all looking at him expectantly.  
“I don’t know,” he says.  
“You don’t know what?” Allison asks.  
“Why. We haven’t focused any of the investigation on him. I don’t even know his name, or what he looks like.”  
“It’s Gerard.”

They try to search for a picture, but nothing comes up, even though the man had a successful weapons business, that he only sold a few years ago. He’s obviously practiced at staying off the radar. Stiles sends another message, to Peter, asking for a picture, though he has doubts Chris will have kept any. He sends a message to Danny too, asking him to try, after he’s finished the other stuff. He doesn’t get a reply, but knows that’s because he’ll be deep in hacker mode – he doesn’t live far away. 

“We just have to wait now.” It feels anti-climactic, but they have nothing else.  
“I’m going to go back to the precinct, ask the boys whether any of the men were older, see if I can get any descriptions, or if they recognize his name,” Jordan says.

Lydia disappears with him, and Scott mumbles something before vanishing with Allison.  
“We’ll get to him in time, you know?” Derek stands behind Stiles, rubbing his upper arms and resting his chin on Stiles’ shoulder, as Stiles stares at the board, looking for _anything_ they can work with.  
“Sure we will.” Stiles turns, giving Derek a peck on the cheek. “Trash day tomorrow, I’ll take it out.”  
“Pizza?”  
“Sure.” But Stiles can’t even build any enthusiasm for his favorite food group.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, if there's anything making your brain hurt, comment to let me know - hopefully it'll be clarified in the next chapter or two, but it could help if it's something I haven't thought about


	12. I Can Hear You Louder Than Ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles didn't get his damn pizza

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Climax ahoy. And a tonne of exposition - Stiles' big brain is working everything out, as usual

Consciousness dawns on Stiles slowly; even behind tightly shut eyes, he can see the red glare of light. The usual process: check all limbs – they’re in place but the sheets surrounding him, pressed against his soft skin, feel shiny-cheap, not the luxurious pure cotton he’s used to, as he stretches, feeling joints pop. Head? Not aching, but fuzzy. The nightmares can’t have been too bad, then, although he has little doubt they were present, even as he refuses to remember them. He always has nightmares when he’s on his own at night. 

Hang on. Why is he on his own? Why is he so sure of that? He was staying at Derek’s surely? He hasn’t slept apart from Derek for weeks. But he’s unnervingly certain he did last night. The sense of wrongness builds as he twists his shoulders, eyes still firmly closed, and the brightness seems to get worse instead of better; and now there is a headache, sneaking up, accompanying the uncomfortably brilliant heat. There’s a twinge in his shoulder too, which, now activated, is not helping the building thud of his brain. 

It almost feels like a hangover, except, no. Well, he can’t actually remember. Was he drinking? It’s been a while; maybe that’s why it’s hit him so hard? What was he doing last night? Why the fuck can’t he remember?

Finally, he feels like he can brave the light, and opens his eyes to the ceiling. It’s low, much lower than Derek’s, or even his own. Almost claustrophobically low, and cracked, and yellowing, and old. There’s a smell. A fusty aroma. Old people scent? The smell of cheap own-brand laundry powder, the scent of poverty, which would explain the surroundings, or just the scent of not caring. 

Ants are under his skin. This is wrong. So wrong. _Why_ can’t he remember anything? Why does he feel this bone-deep fear to move? Did he anger the wrong person on a night out? The idea that he would have voluntarily gone home with someone other than Derek is laughable. Maybe Derek came too. They have been trying some kinkier stuff, but threesomes haven’t come up, that isn’t really their thing, it’s more Jackson’s thing. Hang on. That’s something, a feeling he needs to remember.

The wave of memory hits him like a physical force and he gasps. Isaac. All those boys; the ones still missing. He almost misses the sound of raspy breathing, his ears roaring with the intensity of what’s going through his mind. But it pierces his subconscious and with a glacial speed borne of fear, he turns his head to find the source of the noise.

“Oh my God,” his voice is raspy, and he realizes his throat is scratched raw. Isaac’s eyes are wider than he’s ever seen them, panicked and glossy as he waves his hands in the universal sign for ‘shut the fuck up’. He obeys, more out of a sense of being unable to come up with anything to justify this entirely fucked up situation than anything else.

He turns away from Isaac as he hears heavy footsteps on a staircase, followed by the unmistakable clunk of a chunky key entering the lock, forcefully clicking the barrel over, and he reverts his eyes back to that unprepossessing ceiling.

“Well, hello son. I’m glad to see you’re finally awake. You had me worried there for a while.” The voice is unknown, but still manages to send a shudder of disgust through him, chased by trepidation.

He turns his head, almost as slowly as the first time, and catches sight of their captor. An old guy. White hair. Cadaverous face. Crazy eyes, though that’s probably a given considering the circumstances. He doesn’t know him, and he doesn’t want to.

“What do you want?” he rasps out, pulling himself into seated on the bed, even though it makes his head pound even harder and he thinks he might vomit.  
“Stay calm, Mischief. You don’t want to do yourself a mischief,” the guy laughs gutturally at his terrible joke. Stiles feels a spark of something, some memory, at hearing his stage name from the man, even though it’s what most people, outside of his friends and dad, know him as. “You took a heavy dose. You’ve been asleep for almost two days. Our sweet Isaac is so happy. He was getting bored without a playmate.”  
Stiles glances over at Isaac, who miserably nods his head. “Yes, Sir.”  
“It’s breakfast time, anyway. Isaac will show you what to do. I’ll be waiting.”

He turns and leaves, leaving the door open. Stiles looks at it, but when he looks back to Isaac he just shakes his head. He twirls a finger around the room, then puts it to his lips, his other hand cupping his ear. Stiles takes that to mean the room’s bugged.  
“Come on, Mischief,” Isaac says shakily, “let’s wash up for breakfast.”  
He guides Stiles to a door he hadn’t seen, and there’s a small washroom behind it. There’s no mirror and he lets Isaac use a washcloth on his face, guessing the old guy has a thing about doing things the right way.

He feels like he’s in some weird alternative universe as he follows Isaac up unpolished wooden stairs. They were in a basement, but the rest of the place isn’t much better. There are bare boards on the floor, and the table is a yellow Formica thing that certainly doesn’t look like it was bought from Etsy for an intentional retro-look. If there’s a ‘look’ here at all, it’s crazy woodland dweller, and Stiles can see the thick trees that start a few meters from the dingy, cracked kitchen window. There’s a couch, that looks as old as the guy standing at the stove top, and a coffee table that’s clearly being used for purpose, as it’s covered in both half-finished coffee cups and the resultant rings. There’s no TV and, with sudden surprise, Stiles realizes there’s no lights either. The stove is gas, and he can’t see a fridge. It feels relevant, but he isn’t sure why. 

The man turns with a creepy as fuck smile, and Stiles gets another wave of unfocused recognition.  
“Here we are, boys. Gotta keep your strength up.” He puts two plates, loaded with bacon and eggs, on the table, and sits at an empty space. Isaac sits, and, his eyes deadened and unfocused, begins to eat.

The man looks at Stiles, standing uncertainly, and gestures to the remaining seat.  
“We’ll be training today. You need to eat.”  
Stiles sits, but doesn’t pick up the fork.  
“I’m not hungry.”  
“I find that hard to believe. You were singing about pizza when I picked you up. And you’ve been out for two days.”

Two days. And he really is hungry, his stomach gnawing. But the mere thought makes him nauseous. But Isaac raises his head, just for a moment, and flashes his eyes between the plate and Stiles, a clear suggestion. He reluctantly lifts the fork with a small amount of scrambled eggs. They aren’t good. No salt or pepper – bland and rubbery – but his stomach rumbles at the prompt of them anyway, so he slowly continues to eat.

“What training are we doing, Sir?” Isaac asks quietly.  
“I think we’ll do some archery. Our Mischief will be a little wobbly for hand to hand today, don’t you think?”  
“Yes, Sir.”  
Archery? Shit, no. Or…yes. It’s Gerard Argent. It has to be. Why has it taken him so long to realize? It must be the whatever, drug, still in his system. But archery? The man’s just going to give them weapons? And why? Stiles feels so close, yet so far away from answers. Wait. There was a thing. Where are they? Danny, of course. He was going to find Argent. But he can’t have done. Two days. He'd have been saved before he even woke up. 

“Uh, why do we train…uh, Sir?” he manages, following Isaac’s lead.  
Argent smiles, creepy as fuck but warm, like he’s really happy. “Good, good,” he says, to himself apparently. “Any son of mine must be the best, of course.”  
Stiles can’t even process that. It doesn’t sound like a generic term, like he’d thought of it before. It’s like he actually means ‘son’ like child. Which is, what? Confusing, definitely. 

He doesn’t have much time to think of it though, because as soon as they’ve finished eating they’re going outside. He and Isaac have bare feet, but it doesn’t stop Stiles from looking intently for escape routes. The house is, well, it’s a cabin. Old and badly cared for, and Stiles remembers the logging cabins that someone mentioned a million years ago – scattered throughout the woods where Perry was found. Were they ever searched? His head is a lot clearer now his stomach is full, even if it’s sitting heavily on his gut, but he can’t get a pin on that. Surely they were? Peter’s team of search and rescue folk _must_ have looked there.

This one is in a clearing, and he can see a bore, which must be where the running water comes from, and no power lines, which explains the lack of electricity. There’s also no vehicle, and no roads. Just a large clearing all the way around the small building, surrounded by dense woodland. He looks up. Nothing but clear blue sky. It’s hot, but there’s a cooling breeze, so he thinks they must be higher up. And that’s about the limit of his outdoor skills, right there. Oh, though it’s early enough he thinks he knows which direction is east, even if having zero idea about what _is_ to the east makes that knowledge useless. Close to the edge of the clearing is a wooden outhouse, and next to that is an equally rickety wooden shed, which Argent goes to. 

Isaac had come to a stop as soon as his feet met the grass, and Stiles had stuttered to a stop next to him. He turns and whispers so quietly he can barely hear himself, “Can we talk?”  
“Not really.” Stiles strains to hear Isaac without moving closer. Anything to not draw Argent’s attention. He has his back to them, but Stiles suspects that wouldn’t stop him.  
“Can you sign?”  
“A little.”  
“I can do the alphabet. We can use that in the room.”  
“Okay, and we _can_ talk, but only about the training. Anything about home is forbidden.”

Stiles dreads to think about Isaac learning that the hard way. He decides it’s not worth risking any more whispering. He remembers from school how they always carry further than you think, and suspects getting caught here will not result in a simple detention. 

While they’re waiting, he signs with as little movement as possible R U N   
Isaac signs back D E A T H  
Okay, so they can’t run, though he does wonder if Isaac means death from Argent or animals, but then he remembers Perry and the crossbow and decides not to wonder about that any more. 

There is one thing, with the thought of Kate Argent in his mind, that Stiles is feeling _very_ squirrely about, but he needs to know what to prepare for, so he signs S E X   
Isaac just shakes his head, but vehemently. More than simply, no, Gerard Argent won’t rape you. Stiles can’t work it out and Isaac rolls his eyes and signs H O M O P H until Stiles waves him that he gets it. So they aren’t here for the same reason Kate was taking people for. But some of the boys they’re very much assuming ended up here _came_ from that source. And were gay. But he’s homophobic. Sooo…?

Is he looking for a son? But why would Kate be sending her father gay sons? When the whole reason he lost his real son was the gay thing? Are they completely wrong? Maybe those boys have nothing to do with this – like, where are they now? They aren’t in this cabin. But, again, Stiles remembers Perry, and Karl, in the woods, and something starts to take shape. 

The distraction thinking about that is fortunate, because it means he and Isaac are simply standing mutely when Argent appears.  
“Well, Mischief, let’s see if you’re as good a young man as you seem.”  
Stiles stares, jaw slack, as the memory of where he knows Argent from hits him like a truck. The old fan, the slightly weird one, that seemed to get off on how polite Stiles is. Shit. Have his good manners and friendliness toward fans left him here, in the woods with a psycho?  
“Mischief?”  
“Sorry Sir, I guess I’m excited. I’ve never had the chance to do something like this.” Finally, acting for a living is doing some good, as he manages, _just_ , to pull himself together for the ‘scene’. That’s how he has to think of this now. 

“Well, shall we see who wins this?” Argent asks, with a fanatical gleam of excitement.  
“We aren’t competing are we, Sir?” Isaac asks, panicked. “St- Mischief has only just arrived.”  
“It isn’t the final round, Isaac. But everything is a competition. You really need to learn that.”  
“Of course, Sir.”

Stiles will try to follow Isaac’s lead on this – he suspects both his and Isaac’s safety depends on it – but he hates seeing Isaac so cowed. He knows he had a very rough childhood with a violent, aggressive father and even though if feels counter-intuitive, maybe that’s why he’s able to switch into this subservient mode without degenerating into a panic attack. And, as it’s Isaac’s relative calm that’s the only thing helping Stiles keep it together, he’s fucking thankful for it. But he can’t pretend Argent’s ‘final round’ doesn’t have him nervous.

Argent sets them up with longbows. Not wood and string jobs; no, these are sleek and black – Stiles is going to guess carbon fiber, though really he has no idea – and the arrows are too, although they’re very obviously training arrows. No sharp tips here, and Stiles tries not to be disappointed, though he feels it deep in his chest. He’d have driven one deep in Argent’s chest by hand and laughed doing it, given the chance. But, just like he’d surmised, Argent isn’t a stupid man. He has the actual intelligence his daughter is lacking in – the intelligence he must have passed onto Chris, although, in him, it’s a twisted, warped thing.

They have a competition, of sorts, where Argent sets up various targets, and they take aim. Stiles ‘wins’, easily. He’s clumsy as fuck if he’s expected to move, but he has a good eye, and is hitting the bullseye every time by the time they finish for the morning. 

Isaac is pale – looks sick. Stiles doesn’t know why – he’s pretty sure he needs to be good at this to stay on Argent’s right side, and Isaac wasn’t bad either. So he feels like they should be taking this as a win, but Isaac isn’t happy; he looks like someone kicked his puppy, and Stiles can’t ask even ask him.

They’re eating some weird watery soup out of a packet for lunch, and Argent pats Stiles’ head.  
“You’re really very good at archery, Mischief. You sure you’ve never done it before?”  
“Yes, uh, yes, Sir. You get used to picking things up as an actor though,” Stiles forces a weak smile out.  
“You would have thought, wouldn’t you?” Argent…agrees with him? He thinks? It’s another layer on the information he’s building, though. So, some people who’ve been through here didn’t ‘pick things up’ at a speed Argent was happy with. He’s not referring to Isaac; instead his eyes are distant, like he’s remembering. So maybe Perry? And Karl? Perry makes sense, as he wasn’t even an actor, though Stiles wracks his brain trying to remember what Karl’s connection was. He doesn’t think it was as an actor, though, he seems to remember Karl had a job in a restaurant – that’s it, they used to do the craft services for one of Kate’s shows. He thinks he remembers Bodie was an extra, but he’s not sure about James. Of course, Paul was a prostitute, so he was probably better than anyone at picking up skills.

Thinking about everyone who’s still missing is making Stiles want to cry, but Isaac is pretending a chirpiness that’s utterly creepy; sitting there with a smile that could be better called a rictus, nodding enthusiastically as Argent speaks to him. Stiles takes a breath and works on his own nodding-dog impression, but couldn’t be any more grateful when Argent stands and announces they will do some reading.

He passes Stiles ‘The Art of War’.  
“Read it well. I will test you.”  
“Of course, Sir,” Stiles suspects everything is a test here. “May I sit at the window, for the natural light?” There’s a dusty looking cushion on what could charitably be called a window seat, but he’ll do anything not to have to sit near Argent on the couch.  
“Oh yes, Sir, may I too? It will be very pleasant.”  
Stiles is a bit creeped out how much he and Isaac are started to sound like Victorian urchins begging for scraps, but whatever works, he supposes. And it does work, Argent nods, seemingly impressed by their inane levels of politeness, and they scrunch up at either end of the bench seat, forcing themselves to be engrossed in their books.

Stiles normally struggles to focus, but, thankfully, the book Argent has given him is actually pretty interesting and holds his attention, even if he still glances up every few minutes at Isaac, or over at Argent, both of whom seem enthralled by what they’re reading.

Finally, Argent stands, and, without a word, goes out of the door. Stiles opens his mouth to whisper, but Isaac shakes his head desperately. He signs T H I S instead, and Stiles nods with a frown. He can’t be bothered asking about microphones if they’re reduced to one letter at a time – he’ll just assume. But he does need to know more about how things work here. He knows Danny hasn’t found this place, so Argent doesn’t own it (he trusts implicitly in Danny’s skills, though he does hold out a small hope that he just needs more time).  
W H Y T E S T he signs.  
T H E B E S T Isaac responds. He screws his face up as he ponders, and then his jaw drops. Find out who’s the best. Which means – oh, shit – it means that Argent is fucking Hunger Games-ing them. Putting them through challenges and getting rid of the loser. That’s why he started with two. Paul and Bodie. If Stiles was guessing, he’d say whoever ‘won’ that round wasn’t satisfactory still, so he got mad and called for a competitor, and Kate scrambled to find someone who met the criteria as fast as she could. Stiles has little doubt that she fucked up sending Karl. If the man’s massively homophobic Stiles doubts he’d be super cool with his replacement son being trans.

But what are his criteria? Whatever similarities there are in their looks seems to be focused on them all being ‘cute’ or ‘sweet’ looking. But he’s not after them for anything where that would be a factor. No, though: except for Stiles, they _are_ all sweet. 

But that maybe makes even less sense. Chris isn’t sweet, at all. He’s hot and growly and dangerous. Stiles will concede he probably wasn’t quite such a big bad Dom when he was, what? Eighteen, nineteen? But he really doesn’t think he was ever a sweet little angel. But, maybe that’s it. Argent can’t replace Chris with someone like him, because they would fight him too hard. He wants a replacement that won’t fight him at all. So his choice _must_ be soft and pliable, which is why Kate’s been cherry-picking the sweet ones. But he also wants whoever it is to take part in his bullshit prepping nonsense, and he’s struggling to make the two sides meet. 

It makes something awful stand out in clear relief though.  
P E R R Y he signs to Isaac, whose hand flies to his mouth, his eyes filling with tears. So Isaac knew Perry, which makes sense with time of death. But Argent mustn’t have given Isaac much time before having this ‘final test’ thing. He pats Isaac’s leg to try and console him as best he can without any words, but he has to think this out before Argent gets back.

If Isaac must have beaten Perry, it presumably means Perry beat James, who’d been taken after him _and_ whoever was here when he arrived. He must have had some toughness running through him. 

Whatever happened, they don’t have a lot of time. He does need to know one thing, and he’s terrified the question will break Isaac. But he has to know. He does it the long way, though, to soften the pain.  
D I D H E M A K E Y O U S H O O T P E R R Y  
Isaac mouths along with the first few words before he hangs his head, shaking it.  
M E A N T T O he finally moves C O U L D N T S O H E D I D

Stiles isn’t surprised. He can sadly imagine Isaac dying in order to not have to hurt someone else. But somehow he was lucky. Maybe Argent was in whatever counts for a good mood that day (though not good for Perry), or maybe he had a particular reason for wanting Isaac to win. 

There is something, though.   
H E R E  
Isaac looks confused. Stiles has to clamp his jaw to stop himself speaking in frustration.  
W A S I T H E R E  
N O D R O V E B L I N D F O L D

So Argent drove them somewhere, blindfolded, and then, presumably, told Isaac to shoot Perry. Isaac couldn’t, and Argent took the crossbow, and shot Perry instead. And then, presumably dragged Isaac away. Which answers why Peter’s searchers never found Argent here. This logger’s cabin isn’t in the area they found Perry. It’s somewhere else. 

But…Argent _gave_ Isaac a crossbow? And Isaac is so god damn saccharine sweet Stiles could just bet it never even crossed his mind to turn it on the old bastard. Stiles won’t suffer the same problem if he’s given half the chance. But, the man _isn’t_ dumb. He knew Isaac wouldn’t turn on him. Christ, he probably knew Isaac wouldn’t shoot Perry. But that doesn’t bode well for Isaac – Argent wants someone tough and capable, even if they can’t fight _him_. So Stiles has to keep up the façade. He’s sweet, he’s adorable, and he’s tough: he’s the best kind of replacement son for an insane old nutjob. And he’ll easily kill Argent in cold blood before he even thinks of harming Isaac.


	13. Just a Sum of his Influence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. The climax.
> 
> Warnings in the end notes.

Stiles manages to avoid nightmares by virtue of not sleeping. He quickly realized, when Argent released them to go to bed the night before, that he had had his time for communication. They had barely enough light to find their beds, and there was no chance for sign language. They could maybe have worked it out through touch, eventually, but when it came down to it, Stiles didn’t think he had the energy to try. He has the broad idea of what was going on, and all he could think of through that sleepless night was how to escape. Because he knows, it’s either escape, through whatever means necessary, or die. 

His lack of sleep wasn’t helped by Isaac climbing into his bed halfway through the night, curling into small spoon with a shaky sigh and dropping into a fitful sleep. The idea of Argent catching them curled around each other, and the thought of his potential reaction, made Stiles physically tremble, so he just hugged Isaac close and, when the gray light of morning leached into the room he shook Isaac awake and pushed him back to his own bed. 

Now, seated on the edge of the bed, listening to Isaac brush his teeth, Stiles has to develop a plan – and it has to be the kind of plan he can barely reveal to Isaac, except in the simplest terms. At least his head _finally_ seems clear of whatever had been in his system the day before, and he can actually think – pulling the information he already knew to the forefront and adding the new data he has. 

Argent wants a replacement for Chris. Stiles wonders if he’s been on this track ever since Chris left – over twenty years ago – or if something new has happened to prompt it. The corpses he’s leaving in his wake…Stiles really hopes this is a new thing. Otherwise there might just be a lot more they don’t know. But he feels like it _is_ a new thing. Maybe something has happened in Argent’s life that’s made him want to have an heir. Christ, Stiles hopes he’s fucking dying.

And he’s certain that Kate is helping him – and knows exactly what her father is doing. Argent may have snatched Stiles – he said as much – but they know Kate took Isaac, and Karl, and her connections to the others suggests she probably took them too. So, she’s sending him sweet, amiable boys. But he wanted Stiles specifically. Maybe he’s finally working out that they’re _too_ sweet, and he needs more fire for his purposes. Stiles knows that doesn’t bode well for Isaac, and there is no way he’s going to let anything happen to Isaac on his watch, though he’s sure they have at least a few days before he’s going to have to put a plan into action.

Will Argent realize that there’s no way he should give Stiles a weapon? He’s going to have to work hard to make Argent trust him, and he will have to use every one of the limited acting skills he has to make it seem like he will be the person Agent needs – and make the man drop his guard. 

It’s raining this morning; light summer droplets that drench quickly, but will dry out just as fast. Argent doesn’t seem to care: after another tasteless meal, he takes them out to the clearing and tells them they need to fight hand-to-hand. Stiles notices that he stays out of the rain himself, standing under the eaves of the cabin, and he wonders if he’s worried about getting sick.

They start slowly, gauging each other until Stiles has maneuvered himself with his back to Argent. He mouths to Isaac to follow his lead, and luckily Isaac picks his meaning up straight away, as they enter into an almost choreograph-worthy pseudo fight, where they grapple, and fake harsh contact through over-loud slaps and gasping breaths. He lets Isaac pin him once, and then takes over, whispering, “Let me win. Trust me.” Isaac gives a brief nod, and lets Stiles throw him carefully down and claim a win. 

When they’re both panting with the exertion and Argent puts an end to it, Stiles is expecting more crappy food and, if they’re lucky, another boring afternoon reading books about war.

So the last thing he expects is for Argent to brandish a blindfold and call them over.  
“What’s that for, Sir?” Stiles tries to keep his voice steady, even if this is the worst thing that could be happening.  
“You have proven yourself, Mischief.”  
“No, Sir. We need more time…more training, please, Sir.” He’s begging, even if he tries not to allow his desperation to show. He has no plan. He has no way to save Isaac.

* * * * * 

Isaac is trembling. Even though they aren’t touching, now that Argent has pulled them out of the car and cut the zip ties that bound their ankles and wrists, Stiles is certain he can feel the waves through the air. He tries to make his glances surreptitious, wishing he knew more about the outdoors, wishing he’d listened when Derek had wanted to go camping. They seem to be on some kind of logging road. Argent has just left the battered truck, that doesn’t seem his style at all, in the middle of the track, so it seems apparent he isn’t expecting anyone else to come along.

He tells them to walk, and Stiles is tempted to refuse, but he can see the line of a gun against Argent’s torso, and he remembers the man knows weapons. He doesn’t seem to be carrying anything else, and Stiles gulps, not even able to plan for this.

When they’ve walked for almost an hour along barely-there tracks, having to climb over fallen trees and push through overgrown plants, Argent stops, a rough hand on each of them.  
“This will do,” he says after a moment, but Stiles doesn’t think he originally meant to stop here. He’s looking sharply around, lifting his head as if he’s sniffing the air.  
“Are we training, Sir?” Stiles asks, ignoring Isaac’s shivering frame to desperately try and maintain some semblance of their vile new norm, hoping to distract Argent from what is in his mind.   
“We’re done training, Mischief. You won.”  
“No. How? We didn’t have the final competition.”  
“You think I wasn’t monitoring how impressive you were?” Argent asks, almost snidely.

Stiles casts his eyes, seeing what he can. They’re surrounded thickly by trees, but he listens carefully. What’s that? An almost musical tone. Water. Running water. A river? More likely a stream. He sees some moss high up on a tree, and the one next to it. He seems to remember that means north. So there’s running water to the north. Running water means a source, which _might_ mean people. If they’re in the same place Perry was, Stiles can’t remember a stream on the map, but Argent is smart. He knows the body was found and the area was searched; they won’t be in exactly the same place. And Stiles can remember a small river further north-west from that location, that ended in a lake. If this is it, there’s a village some way to the west. They can follow the water to it. But they have to get away from Argent.

“Here.”  
Stiles looks down at what Argent is handing to him. It isn’t a gun. It’s a hunting knife. A huge, vicious-looking thing, shining silver in the afternoon light, a carved wooden handle. He takes it. A weapon is better than no weapon, though the movement of Argent’s arm reveals he’s definitely armed with a gun. A black, murderous lump of plastic.   
“What do I do with this?” Stiles hedges, his grip tight.  
“I think you know. There can be only one.”  
Great, now the psycho’s quoting Highlander. 

Stiles has to make the decision in a split-moment, grasping Isaac’s shoulder, ignoring the sob, to push him away, further into the trees. All he knows is that he won’t hurt him. No matter what the result of that is. There’s a sudden howl, a responding flurry of noise far in the distance. Dogs? Wolves? Still better than Argent, who he can’t see now, behind the line of trees.  
“Run,” he tells Isaac.  
“What?”  
“Run. I’ll hold him off. I’ll kill him if I can. Go straight ahead, find the water, and turn left. Follow it.”

Isaac looks at him, confliction in his eyes, a tear rolling. Stiles hears a crash of underbrush, knows Argent has followed them, and he pushes Isaac away.  
“Go!”  
Isaac finally listens, running through the brush, dodging past trees as Argent appears, fury in his face.

“You let him go!” he roars, reaching into his jacket, pulling the gun free and pointing it to where Stiles can see glimpses of Isaac running. Stiles can’t think, just launches himself at Argent, slamming into his body, which stumbles but doesn’t fall. He drops the gun though, with an angry growl, and it’s momentarily lost in the thick undergrowth.

Stiles finally remembers the knife and raises it, but Argent is deceptively strong for an old man, and grasps Stiles’ wrist tightly, painfully squeezing. He can’t let him win. He knows about this stuff – Stiles has no doubt that, if he loses this fight, Argent will go after Isaac, and he’ll get him. Maybe kill him, maybe take him back to the cabin, if Stiles is dead. He won’t let that happen. Or, he doesn’t want to, but Argent has him pinned against a tree now, grinding his arm into the rough bark, and Stiles can feel his grip weakening as he lashes out with his long legs, trying to land a kick somewhere as painful as possible, twisting and bucking. He sees Argent’s arm, his sleeve riding up in the struggle, and he bites down, hard, receiving a satisfying howl from the man. A howl that seems to garner a responding howl from the trees. Closer than last time. Stiles shivers, but Argent hasn’t let up his grip and he’s struggling, his hands slick with sweat as he feels himself losing his hold on the knife, until there’s a sudden lack of pressure, and Stiles flies back at the unexpected change, only to look and see Isaac, holding a heavy branch, looking down at Argent, dazed on the ground, blood seeping from his hairline. 

“You should have run,” Stiles hisses.  
“You should be thankful I didn’t,” but there’s no venom to it, and Isaac looks as though he might collapse.

It happens in slow motion. Stiles turns to Isaac, wanting to hug him, but he sees Argent lift himself, clutching the gun, which he must have landed near when he fell, pointing it slightly unsteadily between them. Stiles screams as the shot rings out and he launches himself at the man, landing on his chest, watching in horror as the massive blade slices into him, smooth and sharp, from the knife Stiles had all but forgotten he was still holding, and a huge black wolf bursts out of the trees, pausing to send up a reverberating howl. 

Stiles scrambles backwards, dropping the knife, looking in revulsion as blood wells from the cut, spilling over too red, too thick, like a prop, as Argent splutters, more blood, bubbly and rusty, spitting from his lips. Isaac clutches Stiles as they watch, eyes flitting between the man and the beast, neither making a move to do anything, Isaac bleeding from a bullet scratch to his arm.

* * * * * 

It isn’t a wolf. The man that appeared through the trees with a bloodhound on a leash twenty minutes later, when Argent had lain, finally still, for most of that time, had told them it was a Belgian Malinois as he was guiding them out of the forest. He was trying to distract them, and Stiles let him, as it helped Isaac.

When they arrive at a gravelled parking lot, only fifteen minutes later, Stiles wants to laugh. They were so close the whole time. If he’d just sent Isaac right, he’d have encountered the searchers before he turned back to help Stiles. 

They’re driven to a hospital where Stiles insists they check out Isaac before they help him, but before he knows it, he’s seated by Isaac’s hospital bed, in clean scrubs a sympathetic nurse had given him, freshly showered and wanting to sleep for a million years.

“I didn’t say thank you.”  
“I need to thank _you_. If you hadn’t turned back, he would have overpowered me, and it would have been me instead of him.”  
“No. Thank you for looking for me. I know you were. When I was there…when I worked out what his deal was, I knew you would be searching. I knew you wouldn’t give up on me.”  
“It didn’t work out though. He didn’t take me because of that. It was just a dumb coincidence.”  
“I don’t care. It was all linked, and you worked it out. I’m- I’m sorry you had to kill him.”

Stiles can’t even bring himself to admit it was more accident than anything. Not to Isaac, who’s looking a him like he’s a hero. He can do some good though, he thinks.  
“It wasn’t just me, anyway. It was everyone. But especially Jackson and Peter and Chris.”  
“It was?”  
“They did everything they could. The searchers that found us – it was Peter who arranged and paid for them. He hired a detective, too. No one was giving up on you.”  
Isaac looks contemplative and Stiles leaves him to his thoughts, searching out coffee.

He sees the dark head before he’s spotted, running down the corridor, ignoring the frustrated shout from a harried nurse and diving into Derek’s arms.  
“You came for me,” he whispers.  
“Of course, baby. I always will.”  
Derek hugs him close, and Stiles realizes he’s shaking.  
“Der?”  
“Fuck, Sti, I was so damn scared. We wasted time thinking Kate had taken you. We couldn’t find Gerard, and it was only when Chris said his father liked to camp out in abandoned cabins that we thought we had something. But we thought it was nothing, at first, because they’d checked all the ones where Perry was found, but it was when Jackson looked at the map and asked if anyone had checked the State Park to the south of the National Forest that we found it. The team Peter sent must have missed you by less than thirty minutes, but Gerard had left a map on the table, and several areas were highlighted, so Peter told the searchers to check the ones that were away from where Perry was found, because we didn’t think he’d use the same place. I was so afraid we were wrong, though, that we’d be too late. And we would have been. You’re so brave, baby. I’m sorry you had to do that.”  
“It was an accident, Der. I’m not even sure I could have done it on purpose. I kept telling myself I would, but I don’t know…”  
“I’m glad you don’t have to know. I love you.”  
Stiles wraps his arms around Derek and sobs into his shoulder.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep, curled up on Derek, in Isaac’s room, but he’s blurry when he wakes, and just clutches close to his boyfriend, wanting to avoid real life for a minute longer. But he hears bickering voices outside the door, realizing that’s what woke him, and reluctantly lifts his head.  
“Why aren’t they coming in?” he asks Derek, confused, who nods toward Isaac, sitting up in bed, looking pale but determined. He still doesn’t understand, until Isaac stands and walks to the door, flinging it open.

“What are you doing?” he demands, scowling at Jackson, who shrinks into Chris’ side.  
“We didn’t want to disturb you,” Peter admits, shamefacedly.   
“That ship has sailed,” but then his imperiousness fades, and he slumps. Peter reaches toward him, but Isaac turns to Jackson, wrapping his arms around his neck and burrowing his face in Jackson’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he snuffles.  
“Nothing to be sorry about.”  
“I messed up. If I hadn’t been so stupid…”  
“No. You weren’t stupid. You never had to make any decision then. You still don’t now.”  
“I want to, though. I thought of you the whole time I was there.”

Peter smiles weakly, his eyes watery, as Chris reluctantly takes his arms from Jackson’s waist.   
“No,” Isaac says, his voice stronger again. “I thought of all of you.”  
Chris carefully puts his arm back, taking Isaac in too. Peter has no such compunction and launches himself at them, wrapping Jackson and Isaac in his arms while Chris puts his other hand on Peter’s back.

“We should get a picture,” Stiles whispers.  
“I think we’ll get a lot of chances in the future,” Derek chuckles, pressing his nose into Stiles’ neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW - Stiles kills Gerard Argent. 
> 
> So that's it, mainly. I think there'll be 2 more chapters, that will be mainly smut, with a little tying up of the story (as well as the characters 😉)  
> If there's anything specific you want to see closed off neatly with a bow let me know in the comments


	14. The Whole Wide World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so this is just an excuse for fluffy smut. Just some regular Sterek and some poly stuff, but it's not that kinky (there's no tools involved)
> 
> It's late and I'm tired, but I really wanted to get something positive done by finishing this - it hasn't exactly been a positive week - but if I've done anything too crazy, drop a note and I'll edit.

Isaac wasn’t ready for more than hugging at that point, and Stiles had forced himself to ignore the utterly heartbroken look on Jackson’s face when he’d agreed that Isaac could come with him when they left the hospital.

By the time they’d been run though the gamut of tests, and been checked over and discharged, it had been late, and they’d gone back to Derek’s. Derek had insisted that Stiles and Isaac sleep in the spacious master bed themselves, and he took one of the guest rooms, which made Stiles’ heart swell.

Isaac had woken early, in a nightmare, and now the pair of them are seated at the kitchen table, coffee mugs and pastries before them.

“I’m not sure what to do,” Isaac says, eyes intently watching the ripples sugar create in his coffee.  
“About?”  
“I don’t really want to go back to my apartment- don’t worry! I don’t expect to stay here-,”  
“Isaac, baby, you’re staying here for as long as you need to. I think Derek might want his bed back sooner rather than later, but there’s a bedroom for you as long as you need it.” Stiles knows Derek will be entirely behind the suggestion, though he has a feeling it will be a moot point if Isaac can just get his head together about all the new feelings he’s realizing for Jackson, and maybe for Peter and Chris too.

“We’ll have to speak to the police today.”  
Isaac sighs, slumping against the back of the chair with a scowl.  
“I want to just forget about everything. He’s dead – he’s paid for what he did, hasn’t he?”  
Stiles can’t argue with the desire for the whole mess to go away, but it’s about a lot more than Gerard.  
“Do you remember it was Kate who took you? She was passing him boys that she thought were suitable for whatever he wanted, but she was running a messed up prostitution ring too. Paying boys, but not always; sometimes it was about blackmailing them or threatening them. She needs to pay for that, too. And what we tell the police will help them get other evidence that will make sure she does.”  
“The man was insane. I can see now where she got it from.”  
“It’s a wonder Chris is so sane.” Stiles watches Isaac’s reaction, but the boy dips his head, so it’s hard to read.

Still, later on, after Jordan has spent way too long getting their statements, and Stiles just wants to crawl back into bed, preferably with Derek this time, he isn’t that surprised when Isaac suggests that maybe they should invite Chris, Peter, and Jackson over, just so they have the up to date status of the investigation, of course. 

Derek agrees and contacts them, but the way he’s protective of Isaac makes Stiles feel all kinds of warm and cuddly. He herds the three onto one couch while Stiles is setting up a movie, and then does the same to Stiles and Isaac on the other – arranging them so Stiles is pressed back against his chest and he reaches his arm around Isaac as security. It’s cute of Derek, for sure, but Stiles can’t help but note how Isaac is watching the other three a lot more than he’s watching the screen.

When the movie is over, they talk about the investigation, although it turns out Peter knows more than they do, because he’s been doing his pushy drama queen act with the cops, so they know her lawyer was arrested on his return to US soil, and they’ve also arrested multiple high-ranking movie biz people after they found a cache of recordings at one of Kate’s properties, that show a lot worse than any mutually consenting interactions between adults, regardless of the protestations those people are going with. Just the knowledge that she was organizing such vile things makes Stiles feel sick, if conflicted. He never suffered that way, but it could have (would have) been worse if they hadn’t got away from Argent. Except there’s the argument that the other boys suffered worse because they have to live with what happened. But that’s an existential crisis Stiles isn’t ready to deal with – he suspects that’s one for a very well paid therapist, so he shelves the thought.

It isn’t late when Chris stands, but he looks exhausted.  
“We should go, let you all get some rest.”  
“Sir,” Jackson whispers with a flutter of his lashes, but it carries, and Stiles smiles at how much being adorable suits him. “Can I ask, at least?”  
Chris looks uncertain, but now Peter’s joining in with the puppy dog eyes, which are not quite as cute on him as he can’t seem to help looking calculating, even now. But it works, as Chris huffs, looking to the ceiling for inspiration, and he reluctantly nods.

Jackson bounds over, but then stops, trying to draw his face into something warm but sincere.  
“Isaac. Will you- please, we’d like it if you would let us look after you. No pressure, at all. I promise. I won’t even ask for anything from you. At all. Everything on your pace, promise, even if that means never.” He’s breathless and looking everywhere but at Isaac, clearly terrified of his rejection.  
But Isaac grins. “Yeah. I trust you Jacks, I know you won’t pressure me. I’d like it.”  
Jackson grins then, too, and it threatens to take his head off it’s so wide, and seconds later Isaac’s in an encompassing hug. Jackson might not pressure him for anything, but Isaac definitely won’t have any touch-starvation.

As they’re leaving, Stiles pulls Chris to one side.  
“Uh, I don’t know what he wants from this, or how you guys are when you’re at home together, but word to the wise, be careful with the whole ‘Sir’ thing until you know how Isaac feels about it.”  
“Uh, thanks Stiles. I read you,” Chris blushes furiously, but then he looks at Isaac so warmly Stiles doesn’t even care that he had to raise it with him.

“And what do you want, Stiles?” Derek asks, gently stroking Stiles’ shoulder as they stand in the doorway of the master suite.  
“Definitely not to call you Sir. I think that word is seriously ruined for me.”  
“That’s okay, Baby. We never have to do any of that stuff again if it makes you uncomfortable.”  
“Hey, Der, I didn’t say that. I love it when you spank my ass.” Stiles checks Derek with his hip, chuckling, but then he gets serious. “Though, not tonight, yeah? Argent didn’t do anything sexual to me or Isaac, but Isaac told Jordan that he used a belt on Perry, called it discipline. And he definitely had a hard on for control, so I wanna give the whole thing some fresh air before we go again. Just want you to remind me what we’ve got tonight.”  
“You need reminding how much I love you?” There’s no accusation or insult in his tone, he’s just asking, so Stiles nods, resting his head against his broad chest with a soft breath, letting Derek guide him until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. 

Derek tenderly undresses Stiles, neatly folding his t-shirt and jeans before laying him back on the bed and kissing softly down his body.  
“I want you to promise you’ll stop this if _any_ of it makes you uncomfortable,” he says while he’s pulling his own t-shirt off, revealing the broad chest and tight abs that still make Stiles breathless.  
“Yup, you’ve got it. Promise. C’mere.” He makes grabby hands, aching for Derek to cover him, which he does, stroking and massaging along Stiles’ back while he covers his lips, gently probing until they sink into a kiss that’s less animal passion and more adoration and care. 

Nevertheless, Stiles is breathless when Derek finally pulls back, knowing his own pupils match Derek’s, which are blown enough to almost obliterate those stunning clear irises.  
“Wanna look after you, Sti. Let me?”  
“Uh-huh,” Stiles’ head falls back on the pillow as Derek sets to work, taking him apart piece by piece. His mouth nipping and sucking across every visible inch of Stiles’ chest and stomach, leaving flushed marks, that will soon fade, and puffy, glistening nipples. Stiles lets the noises free, whimpering and gasping at each new touch, writhing his hips in progressive desperation as Derek seems determined to stick with his upper body.

Derek chuckles, finally, a dark, promising sound, and restarts the process further down, twisting his tongue along Stiles’ inner thigh. Stiles feels like he might just implode, his cock almost _itching_ with need, a steady pool growing on his lower stomach.  
“Please,” he whines, when it becomes clear none of his previous indications are going to be taken seriously.  
“Sssh, Baby, I’ve got you,” Derek murmurs, and Stiles almost sighs in relief, but yelps in shock instead, as Derek’s fat tongue swipes across his hole. He settles into it, though, spreading his long thighs to give the best access to his body, and Derek makes the most of it, wrapping his arms around them and burrowing his face so he can get as deep inside his lover as possible.

Stiles is so tempted. Derek stays there _forever_ and Stiles knows the slightest touch on his dick will make everything happen, but he doesn’t want it that way.  
“Der, please. Want you in me.”  
Derek slides up Stiles’ body, kissing along his collarbone while he gets the lube, easily sliding two fingers inside his relaxed body, coating Stiles’ insides and then his own heavy cock.  
“Turn around for me, Sti.” Like he knows that pressing against his body might feel claustrophobic, Derek helps Stiles turn so he can cuddle him from behind, pressing inside almost as a gentle afterthought, albeit one that sends sparks of pleasure pulsing through Stiles, as he arches, pressing his ass hard against the crook of Derek’s curled body, taking him as deep as possible.

Derek shifts his hips, while holding Stiles’, dropping sweet butterfly kisses on the nape of his neck while he grinds inside him, until Stiles can’t hold back his pleasure for another moment, and squeezes down as he comes, coating his own hand.  
“So perfect, Sti, love you so much,” Derek murmurs into his neck as his fingers dig into Stiles’ hips for a moment as he lets himself go.

Cleaned up and sated, Stiles clings to Derek’s strong body, legs entwined, letting himself feel safe as sleep finally overtakes him.

* * * * * 

Jackson is buzzed and nervous as they drive back to the penthouse. He can’t help the insanely happy grin when Isaac reaches a calming hand over and entwines their fingers, and he can see Chris’ smile in the mirror, but he tries to stay relaxed. Everything is riding on this, or at least it feels that way, and he can’t afford to devolve.

He’s hyper aware that the way he is could be enough to have Isaac running from what this could be. He knows Chris’ caring strictness and Peter’s loving warmth will be perfect for Isaac. He _knows_ it’s his own desperate neediness that might be uncomfortable. That might be too much. Why wouldn’t it be? Fuck, it’s almost too much for _him_. 

Whatever the negative thoughts are doing to him, at least it eats up the journey, and they’re back at home before he knows it. Peter has grabbed Isaac’s bag, so Jackson can’t even do that, but he won’t pout. Anyway, Isaac takes his hand again, and even rests his head on Jackson’s shoulder for a moment, which makes his heart beat faster. 

“It’s getting late. Do you want to go to sleep?” Peter asks Isaac, but he shakes his head.  
“I’m not that tired. Uh, can we talk, a bit?”  
“Of course, let’s sit.”  
Peter and Chris sit on one couch and Isaac on the other. Jackson doesn’t know where he should go. He doesn’t even know where he _wants_ to go more.  
“Why don’t you sit next to Isaac, Baby Boy?” Peter says, so he sits by Isaac, curling his legs under him.

“Is there anything specific you want to talk about, Isaac?” Chris asks gently.  
“Us, I think? Yes, us.”  
“Okay. Though we might need more information.”  
“How does it work? You want… I mean, Stiles told me. But maybe I’m wrong. You’re happy…”  
Of course it’s Peter who responds to that mess. “We like you, Isaac. All of us. And we are very happy, but if you would be part of it, it would be a real thing. Not just playing. You would be to us what we are to each other.”

Jackson tries not to look too puppy-eyed. He doesn’t want to pressure Isaac into making a decision that isn’t right for him.  
“I’d like to try,” Isaac says, finally, after a pause that nearly kills Jackson. “I’ve liked you for a while,” he whispers, his head down. “I didn’t think I had a chance.”  
“You have all the chances, Issy. We’ll be so good for you, I promise.” Jackson can’t help himself after keeping his voice down so long, but Peter just looks fondly at him.  
Isaac gives him a look that sends a pleasurable shudder of shock down his spine. “I bet you will, Jacks. So good for me.”  
Peter chuckles. “Oh dear, Baby, I think you’ve taken on more than you realize.”  
Peter might be right, but Jackson doesn’t care, and he grins happily.

“Uh, I don’t want to pry, but you guys are dominant, aren’t you?” Isaac blushes as he looks at Peter and Chris.  
“There’s no prying, darling,” Peter says, “anything you want to know, you ask. Chris is a Dom, and I’m a switch, but I am Jackson’s Dom.”  
“So you’re a sub?” Isaac turns to Jackson, sending him pink, but he nods with pride.  
“Where do you see yourself, Isaac?” Chris asks.  
“Definitely submissive. If I feel safe. And I think I will feel safe with you. I might like to fuck Jackson though,” he finishes confidently and Jackson coughs in surprise.  
“Do you think you’d like that Pup?”  
Jackson just nods, not trusting his voice to respond appropriately to Chris.  
“Good,” Peter says, “I think we’d like that too.”

“You call Jackson Pup?” Isaac asks Chris.  
“Yes, and he calls me Sir, though we can change that if it makes you uncomfortable.”  
“Oh. Stiles told you?”  
“He did. It’s up to you.”  
“Does Jacks call you Sir all the time?”  
“All the time in private, but it’s his choice. He likes to be in a submissive mindset as often as possible.”  
Jackson isn’t sure how he feels about not being allowed to call Chris Sir, but he does know he’d stop for Isaac.  
“I don’t want Jacks to stop calling you that. It’s his name for you, and it obviously makes him happy. I’m not sure if I want to though.”  
“That’s fine, Kit.”  
“I have a nickname already?”  
“If you’ll accept it. You strike me as a bit more fox-like than Jackson.”  
“I like it.”  
Chris beams, which Jackson thinks is very cute (though he won’t say that until he feels like a spanking).

“And what does Jackson call you?” Isaac asks Peter with a tilt to his head, as if he knows already, which makes Jackson blush even harder, because this is one of those things that might have him running.  
“He calls me Daddy, and he’s our sweet Baby Boy.”  
Jackson knows Peter is faking the confidence he says that with, because he _has_ to be as nervous as him. Except Isaac doesn’t screw his face up, at all. Instead, he bites his lip, eyes wide and flitting between Peter and Jackson.  
“Really? You get to call him Daddy?” he whispers, leaning into Jackson a little.  
“Yeah. Do you want to, too?”  
“Can I? You wouldn’t mind if I did it as well?”  
“No. I’d like it.”  
Isaac drops a surprising kiss on Jackson’s cheek and sits back.

“So, what else do you do?”  
“The usual. Bondage, light flagellation, clamps and gags.”  
“Daddy,” Jackson whines, embarrassed, but pleased he can use the word without Isaac judging him.  
“Is that true, though?” Isaac asks, but Jackson notes he’s half hard and looks eager.  
“Well, yes. Except, don’t worry, we aren’t going to just break everything out all at once. We’ll build up to it, and make sure you’re comfortable before we use anything,” Peter reassures him, but Chris chuckles.  
“I think our boy might like it if we did try all that on him.”  
“I just want to make you happy,” Isaac says demurely.  
“Ahah,” Peter laughs, “well, Chris, at least with two praise hungry over-eager boys we’ll know what’s expected of us.”

Jackson watches the way Isaac clenches his hand on his knee, like he wants to move, and he wonders whether to prompt something. But Peter’s seen it too, and his eyes have darkened.  
“I think Issy wants to show us now just how eager he is to make us happy. What would make you happy, Chris?”  
“Well, this wouldn’t have happened if Pup hadn’t been brave enough to tell us what he wanted, so I think he deserves a reward. Would you be willing to give him a sweet kiss, Kit?”

Isaac turns to Jackson, taking his hands, and plants a soft, sweet kiss on his lips. Jackson feels light-headed, just from that, and he definitely wants more, but he’s determined not to push too hard.  
“That was perfect. Isaac, consent is very important to us, so we need you to know that no matter what else is happening, any time you need to slow things down, you can say yellow, and if you want to stop whatever’s happening, you say red. And we will check in sometimes, and if everything is okay you say green. So, how are you feeling?”  
“Very green. Can I kiss Jacks again?”  
Peter and Chris both say, “Yes” equally breathily, and when Isaac leans in again, Jackson reaches up to stroke his arm, encouraging him to make more of it, ecstatic when he runs his tongue along the seam of Jackson’s lips, which he parts to allow access and they taste each other’s mouths, increasing in passion until Jackson’s leg is over Isaac’s thighs, and they’re holding each other tightly while Jackson nuzzles at Isaac’s jawline, listening to his heavy breaths. 

“Daddy, Chris, can I thank Jacks more?”  
“What do you want to do, Issy?”  
“Uh…”  
“Do you want us to decide for you?”  
“Will you?”  
“How far do you want this to go?”  
“All the way?” Isaac says in a very quiet voice.  
“Kit, you don’t have to put pressure on yourself to make us happy. More than any of the other stuff, we want the two of you safe and comfortable.”  
“I don’t feel pressured, I promise. I’m green. Please?”

Chris and Peter whisper for a minute. Jackson can’t hear them, but they aren’t disagreeing. He thinks they might be planning instead, and anticipation thrums in him as he rests his head on Isaac’s shoulder.  
“Okay. Well, if we’re thanking Jackson, would you like to ride him, Issy? And if you open him up for me first, I’ll fuck him at the same time.”  
“What about Chris?” Isaac asks.  
“I don’t mind watching this time.”  
“No, Sir, please let me suck you,” Jackson pleads, wanting to be as thoroughly used as possible for this first time with all of them.  
“I’d love that, Pup, thank you.”

Jackson and Isaac enter the bedroom hand in hand, and Jackson is thankful that their bed is a custom-build that he’s always thought was a ridiculous affectation from Peter, because, now, it’s the perfect size to fit all of them. 

They kiss and strip each other, and the most notable thing is how natural it feels. Even when there’s a potentially awkward moment when Jackson gets his boxers caught on his ankle, they giggle and smile through it, and then lay close on the bed, kissing and exploring with their hands so comfortably that Jackson very nearly forgets what they’ve moved here for, until Isaac’s long fingers run lightly down the length of his cock, and he whispers: “You’ll be so big inside me, Jacks.”

Jackson responds with a moan, and then a whimper of loss as Isaac disappears from his side, accepting a jar of lube from Peter and circling his tightly furled muscle, bringing forward a different kind of whimper when he breaches, sliding all the way in. Jackson watches through hooded eyes as Chris approaches gently touching Isaac’s bare shoulder.  
“May I prepare you for Jackson?”  
“Yes please, Chris.”

Jackson can’t see anything, but he suspects Isaac’s movements are mirroring Chris inside himself, because the moves are familiar, even with Isaac’s longer, slimmer fingers. Peter approaches, nibbling at Jackson’s earlobe.  
“How does he feel, Baby?”  
“So good, Daddy, reaching so deep.”  
“I’ll bet, Baby. It looks incredible, the way you’re relaxing for him. And you’re going to love his tight little hole. He can barely take your Sir’s thick fingers, he’s going to clench down so hard on you.”  
“Daddy,” Jackson complains with a gasp. He won’t last with those dirty words in his ears.  
“You like that thought a bit too much, huh? Filthy boy.” Peter kisses him and rolls a condom onto him, before helping Isaac straddle Jackson, guiding him down.

Peter wasn’t lying. He’s so tight, and hot, and Jackson has to clench every muscle down to stop himself from losing it, which makes Daddy, who’s just entered him, cry out in pleasured shock. Sir strokes his face, and then lines up his huge, thick cock, sliding until it nudges Jackson’s throat. A strong roll from Isaac, and thrust from Daddy and Jackson almost screams at the glorious feeling, but it’s cut off by Chris taking advantage of his open throat and driving home. The three of them have a synchronicity that should only come from practice – Isaac’s natural rhythm is just fitting in perfectly – and Jackson focuses on his own movement to make sure he’s matching up, which has the benefit of distracting him just enough that he doesn’t immediately blow his load burrowed deep into the boy he’s been fantasizing about for months. 

It’s the sight of Daddy pulling Issy into a caring kiss at the same time his lower body is slamming forcefully into Jackson that tips him over the edge, and his vision whites as Sir holds himself in Jackson’s throat for an extra moment, purposefully stealing his breath, before coating his tongue in hot, salty cum. Daddy was using his hand on Issy at the same time, and he comes then, extending Jackson’s own orgasm with the contraction of his passage, just as he feels Daddy well inside him.

Just as he’s about to collapse with the over-stimulation of his body, Daddy brings his hand to Jackson’s mouth.  
“Do you want to taste our new boy, Baby?” so he laps with his tired togue, Sir coming to help and moaning at the taste.

They fall asleep, Jackson and Isaac in each other’s arms, Chris behind Isaac and Peter behind Jackson, and Jackson can’t help how insanely happy he is.

**Epilogue**

Stiles is okay. But he’d rather not be here. He’s going back to school for post-grad. He’s not sure what he’ll end up doing with his criminology Masters, though he’s spoken to his dad and Jordan about the police. It doesn’t matter right now, anyway. He promised Peter he’d do the premiere, even if they gave him a free pass on the media circus that came before it. The only interview he’d agreed to was Graham Norton, and he went on _with_ Derek this time, and they announced their engagement. That caused the expected fifteen minutes of mania, but it’s mainly died down now, thank God. Besides, Peter was ecstatic because of the free advertising. 

What happened a year ago doesn’t affect him anymore. None of his nightmares even relate to it, and he knows Isaac got through it similarly well, especially after Kate Argent was convicted and given 25 to life for her role in his kidnapping and Perry and Karl’s deaths, as well as everything else she’d been guilty of. Their therapist will, of course, continue to sit pretty on the continued income from them, along with Derek, Peter, Chris, and half of everyone else. Stiles reasons everyone is a little crazy – there’s no shame in it. 

The movie was a hit with the crowd at the premiere. Stiles isn’t surprised. They’d made some changes and dedicated the new, ‘based on a true story’ version to everyone impacted by the lunacy of Kate and Gerard Argent (and managed to get Charlize Theron, going full ‘Monster’, to play Kate Argent, which Stiles thought was a particularly nice touch).

At the after-party, Stiles leans into his fiancé’s side and watches everyone enjoy themselves. Isaac is standing with his hand in Peter’s, and Chris has his arm around Jackson – another benefit of their poly arrangement meaning they can be a little more public without anyone being left out, though it makes Stiles giggle when, invariably, Isaac and Jackson will forget later, after one too many champagnes, and kiss or hold hands. The gossip rags love clickbaiting with stories about the rifts in their ‘official’ relationships, and the suspicion that they’re having an affair right under their partners’ noses and Stiles thinks it’s hilarious that not one of them has ever guessed at the truth. 

Scott is gazing at Allison, as usual. They’re engaged now, too, as are Boyd and Erica. Lydia and Jordan aren’t there yet, but Stiles suspects it’s because Jordan’s saving to buy her an insane ring. Stiles knows she’d say yes, happily, without one, but that she also loves that Jordan wants to make the effort for her. Graham Booker is even here, with his, now official, boyfriend, who it turns out isn’t a total douche, even for someone pretty high up in the movie industry.

“You ready to go?” Derek whispers, running a thumb along Stiles’ jaw.  
“So ready.”  
“You want me to tie you to the headboard when we get home?”  
“Why are you still standing there? Take me home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being on this journey.  
> My first 'mystery' and I did enjoy it a lot - even if I sometimes wanted to beat myself for having so many names in it.  
> Would love to hear your thoughts on it.

**Author's Note:**

> Would love to hear your thoughts.
> 
> BTW - it's meant to be ambiguous - all questions this throws up will be answered...eventually


End file.
